Lost keys



Out on a lunch time walk in Boston's North End, it's historic Italian district.
One of those 'just right' days when searing sun and soothing breeze perform alchemy.

 

Prince Street

The lone bakery on Prince Street made up for its solitude by emitting  stronger-than-usual aromas of fresh baked bread, still-warm pizza and cloying sweet confectionery treats. An aromatic bouquet of confusion that comforted just the same.
Older restaurants on Salem Street showed off green, flowery window boxes overflowing with spring abundance.


Salem Street

Token silverware embedded in the pavement by their entrances caught and reflected the sunshine and the old-world traditions of their founders. Places with the words 'trattoria' or 'famiglia' in their name.



"Mangiare!"

Outside Polcaris Coffee at the intersection of Salem and Parmenter Streets, elderly Italian men were planted in sidewalk lawn chairs across from each other.
     They conversed and communed in contented yells and old country dialects over a too-loud transistor radio that no-one seemed to mind. The din seemed fitting somehow. Naked folds of aged, leathery skin (exposed to the welcome sun) were also less marginally offensive when the possessor of said skin tossed out gratuitous, grinning greetings to all and sundry. 'Bon giorno!'. Even the occasional 'Bellisima!' - always guaranteed to make me smile, regardless of the patent untruth.



Boston Public Library: feed the mind

Tourists blocked the narrow sidewalk outside Polcari's, waiting to self-serve the Italian Ice stored in an old wooden pail just outside the corner door. I've seen this same wooden contraption get an airing for 12 consecutive summers. I often wonder what flavor it imparts to the cold slush inside it...if it doesn't taste a bit of history and sunshine in addition to the lemon or raspberry signatures of summer. One of these days, I'll find out. Others held up traffic as they paused to consult their map of the Freedom Trail or discuss lunch options, loudly and leisurely. On another day I might have been tempted to break up the annoying knot by snapping ''Ernestos for pizza, Joe Tecces for pub food and Famiglia Giorgio's for pasta. Modern Pastry for dessert, not Mikes. Now for the love of God move-along and let the rest of the world pass!". Well, perhaps I might not actually say all that but I'd think it. It would start up a slow simmer of resentment at the intrusion into my precious half-hour away from my work desk, shelving all rational thoughts of the equal rights of all North End visitors and the inescapable fact that I myself am a foreigner and transplant - regardless of any innate feeling of belonging my long residence here might invoke.

    
 



Parmenter Street

    
Not today though. Because as I was crossing North Washington street from my building to enter the North End, this is what I saw at the crosswalk.

Keys on a 'walk' post

How carefully someone had tucked away those lost keys. They might have left them where they were found. I know I probably would have opted for in situ,  in the hope that someone retracing their steps would find it easily. But someone had paused and thought about the chances of them being run over perhaps, or knocked aside and lost beyond recovery. Then they'd made the effort of tucking them safely away in a visible spot where their chances of recovery were improved.
                The North End sights, sounds and smells that I'd become careless about from 12 years of exposure returned to me today. The wrought iron balconies far above the streets seemed to march in greater elegance and the sidewalk bricks assumed a glow. Old men, sidewalk cutlery and an aged wooden pail of Italian Ice called out in cheerful cacophony.

Someone had cared. Someone, somewhere always cares.

Curry. Or more.

Feel the gentle heat? Make sure the flame is not turned up too high: it could scorch.

Toss it all in and pay attention to the sizzle. Resist the urge to adjust the initial  arrangement. Let the pieces lie where they have fallen. The sizzle will lessen as the heat differential reduces. Everything will start warming through. 

When it starts to cook - stir gently. Carefully. Just a little bit. Expose the un-seared sides to the thrumming heat. Wait for the transfer. 

Now you're really cooking.

Introduce fluidity: let it seep slowly into the pulsing heat. Don't pour: it might arrest the process. Just as much as can be absorbed and burned off.

Smell to check on stage. The fresh new aroma is also a bit raw. Distinct and identifiable parts, yet to yield up their flavors to each other. 

Season. Hit all the notes: high, low and in-between. Stop before its just enough...trust synergy to take you that last distance.

You'll know when it's done.  The aroma will be complex and layered. Pieces will have fit together in repose, settled. A melded whole. 

Turn off the heat. Watch the simmer fade as stillness arrives.

Garnish with something sweet and tangy.

Serve.

Oh, and you can cook Bengali chicken curry this way too. :-)

Bengali chicken curry:

Marinate bone-in chicken with -

Plain yogurt

Ginger-garlic-onion paste

Turmeric powder

Salt 

Red chilli powder

Cumin powder 

Follow directions above.

A red and white walking stick

He's always on my morning train to Boston: elderly, slim, suited, blind. Most days our arrival at the Waltham station times such that I board a few paces behind him. His wife (presumably) is younger and guides him to the steps by his elbow, always taking her leave with an affectionate kiss and cheerful wish that he has a great day. 

I've noticed that she always dresses in bright colors. Resisting the temptation of a trite analogy about relieving the darkness he can see with color that he can't ......and failing. It seems comment worthy after all.

The passenger closest at hand in the train usually guides the gentleman to an empty seat, either verbally or with instinctively discreet touch. Today's helpful passenger had a slight cognitive stumble over left vs. right and our vision impaired friend spent a short time attempting to sit on an arm rest. It was quickly rectified with minimal discomfort and discomfiture to all parties. 

On the Boston end, it's usually a middle-aged lady from our train who either rushes up or drops behind to assume that gentle, guiding-elbow grip. The short-stepped, careful walk to the tapping of the red and white walking stick morphs smoothly into long, smooth strides as our Blind friend finds assurance. She invariably breaks into an easy and congenial patter of small talk. At least for the length of the platform that I walk alongside them. We typically head in different directions once we reach the terminal. I've been his elbow gripping guide once or twice as well and have tried not to  demand small talk from him for my help. But she seems like an old friend and it doesn't seem entirely unwelcome.

I don't think it remarkable that a blind person navigates daily commuting. My surprise comes, rather, from this evidence that our societal symbiosis is so deeply ingrained that every day, in this increasingly isolated and isolating world, strangers step out of their bubbles so easily in service to their Humanity. The terror and dismay in our world lately has been creating this image of a rather indifferent world where people visibly have more time and interest for their portable devices than each other, where troubled souls simmer and fall-apart in dark societal crevices, where rage and disappointment find outlet in either passive hostility, indifference or active, almost-casual violence. At least for me. I suspect for many others who are similarly assaulted by tragedy close to home: in the past 6 motnhs I've lost my father-in-law, young cousin sister (mom to my 2 little nephews), had a school shooting in a neighboring state, a bombing in my city and a manhunt that had me terrifided in a lockdown at home. It's little wonder.

That people still respond to their instincts selflessly, is reassuring to me right now. My continued faith in human decency makes me unwilling to applaud this basic standard of behaviour and glorify it unnecessarily.

But I feel I ought to anyway. It's not all dark out there, even when it seems like it might be.
It only takes some looking to See.

Oyon-isms
I was massaging my forehead in the car as he buckled in for the drive to school.
Oyon: Are you angry at me Mummum?
Me: No kiddo. My head hurts, that's all. Allergies, I think.
Oyon: Oh. The best thing is to think of something. Your brain is very close to your forehead so it will distract you from the pain.
Me: Good idea. Thanks.
Oyon: Yeah, but don't do it if your tummy aches. Your stomach is too far from the brain for it to work. I've tried.

Out of place and context

Binjal, not eggplant.

I was shopping for dinner at the Indian grocery store last Saturday . The vivid greens of the corrugated bitter melons contrasted so sharply with the purple tones of smooth, sinuous eggplant, that it was like they were in a yelling match with each other. Or at me. Stopped me in my tracks and demanded a pause in thought and a redirecting of attention. I unclenched my grocery list and paused the restless muttering  in my head. You know the one: a rushed mental inventory of the pantry to catch essentials that missed the list, how to time the cooking for dinner guests so I could play a bit in the afternoon too, did I have special 'kid' food for the 2 picky eaters in the under 10 demographic that night, 3 possible uses during the week for the pitas I just slipped into my basket, did i have to buy anything to support said pita plan? And so on.

Doris. I presume?

It was a relief for the chattering inside to cease, even if it came with a bit of a mental whiplash. Easier in the end, by far, to just look and maybe even, See. But something was out of place. Even in my gratefully dazzled state, mind blissfully adrift amidst the colors and textures, something niggled at me. It took a minute to realize what it was. The lost little snail. It was sliming an industrious path across its endless brinjal wastelands in complete ignorance of its context. What was it DOING there? Could an inch long creature even begin to grasp the scale of the world that had subsumed it? I marvelled at this dual incongruity of space and belonging when this amusing thought popped into my head: why am I so sure that the snail is out of place and context? Why shouldn't it be me instead? If I switched place with Doris (I had decided that's who she was), wouldn't the purple undulations stretching out to the horizons be my only reality? The harsh glare of far off lights, din of voices, clattering of carts - wouldn't those be so far removed as to not even feature in my snail-y view and purpose? 

In my kitchen, shortly thereafter, I retrieved a week old bag of onions to start on the eggplant curry for dinner. Not Doris's eggplant though. I had reluctantly turned her over to the authorities, visions of health code violations and the loss of my favorite Indian store flashing across my mind. I mean, look what all I get there while I'm shopping for cilantro and 'real' chillies. I imagine Doris is now tracking along the inside of a trash can, surrounded by glorious heaps of decaying vegetables that will sustain her for a long life yet.

Onions still?

Anyhow, peeking out of the hole I'd long ago ripped into the netted bag of onions was this. Did not ponder context or belonging this time.

Not much, anyway.

The fleshy greens were firm, sinuous things of beauty. There's no questioning a life force as graceful and natural as this. I worked with a couple of other onions that were a little behind these two in terms of realizing their potential.

 

Found the green onions a fertile planter befitting their grown-up status and a sunny window sill.

Keeping an eye on them.

And thinking of Doris.

Dandelion: rites or rights?

'Spring' must be named for the way new vegetation jumps out of the cold, hard ground in the blink of an eye. Cue - my annual awe at the signs of life, hope and the delightful sensory overload it brings with it. From the eye-popping yellow of Daffodil heads to the muted rusts of the American Robin breasts, there's a glut of color everywhere. The limited palette of our barely departed Winter becomes a rapidly fading memory.

These are times to be mindful, to soak up and wallow in the details....listen, feel, gaze, breathe. When you're not sneezing from all the pollen, that is. I'm glad to see signs of self-propagation, to anticipate more future greenery but why, I ask, this botanical machismo in broadcasting such excessive proof of virility?! My heart is glad but oh, my sinuses!

My place in the sun?

Seasonal allergies aside, examining the yard closely for hidden delights this time of year also brings with it the dreaded encounter with newly emerged Dandelions, serrated leaves fanning out to nestle comfortably amongst tufts of young grass. Suddenly I no longer notice the fresh, green tinge to the yard nor the surprise purple Crocuses (Crocii?) dotting it. Just that it's going to be a long, hot summer of first fighting weeds, then feeling ineffectual, defeated as they outpace my paltry efforts.

Yesterday, as this annual ritual unfolded, it transported me back 3 years to a spring Saturday morning a few months after we'd moved to our new home in Waltham. As I kneeled on the edge of our lawn and start tearing into the clumps closest to me, then-3-year old Oyon piped up from behind, "Here Mummum, I got a flower" (though his lisp at the time turned it into 'fwawah'). He proudly offered me something green and crushed, opening his little fist to reveal - not a crisp little bloom - but a ball-like Dandelion seed-head.

Oyon, 3 yrs - trying to smell Spring

Noting that I was busy eviscerating a clump just like the one he'd just beheaded, he sank into a squat and demanded to know what I was doing. I started on a spiel about 'bad flowers' but was soon interrupted with 'Why they bad? The seeds can fly! I LOVE this flower!'. I rapidly ran out of both conviction and words at this point. Also, I ran out of an audience: Oyon was now blowing the seeds into the air and running after them, giggling like a maniac.

But not before he had started me on my other seasonal struggle:
weed rites or weed rights?

 

Weeding has always left me feeling faintly guilty about just the sort of botanical Eugenics that the 3 year old honed in on. I don't seem to have any compunctions about the selective breeding inherent in agriculture. For instance I'm happy enough to consume the Brown Basmati that is a staple in our home, that I know to have been deliberately cultivated at the expense of other native flora on large tracts of farmland. It's the only way to sustain life outside of an agrarian community. My unease also doesn't seem to extend to say, the furniture industry. I'm aware of the systematic replacement of primary forests all over the US with hardwoods stands best suited to furniture making. I don't feel particularly happy about it but have yet to eat dinner sitting on the floor (as I suppose I very well could) because I'm morally troubled by furniture. I've made Peace with the necessity of commercial agriculture and forestry or the sake of leading our modern lives. Can't very well do my nifty little GIS analyses to help save said forests if I'm out  at sunrise to milk the cows and till the soil. And no - I don't dwell on the logical fallacy and the self-fulfilling prophecies in the above statement. Leave me alone, would you?! I do just fine confusing myself all on my own.
 

I suppose I'm stating the obvious fact that admirable moral stands are difficult to fully abide by when they drastically redefine basic standards of living. Far easier to rationalize away any unease with theses on top-of-the-food-chain rights or the mitigating effect of consuming sustainably developed products. I decided long ago to not look too closely the moral compromises we make for a basic quality of life. Doesn't deter me from occasionally proselytising but I'm a 'work in progress' so it's alright. I'll get there.

What I can't rationalise away to myself quite as easily is selective breeding for the sake of societally defined aesthetics. That someone, somewhere in time decided that Kentucky Bluegrass and Fescues made for the ideal, attractive lawn and so Crabgrass should be deemed persona non-grata and Dandelions, conniving intruders. That clover blooms are not as worthy of ground space as say Phlox or creeping Thyme. So spray the one and tend the other.

If there were ever reasonable grounds for these decisions, they've probably outlived their usefulness by now. For instance, K. Bluegrass probably makes for great fodder but since the typical suburban lawn no longer supports grazing cattle or horse, the point is largely moot. But it does resist cold weather and drought equally well and will spread to fill in bare spots and Scotts' sells it at discount in economically fulfilling large bags. Also, some trend setting home owner one day sowed the seeds and started a standard that the Jonesing neighbors then stepped up and embraced. So we go with the flow. 

So my self-flagellating, rhetorical, annual question is: who defined these aesthetics and why are we tied to them? Is it true personal choice or unwillingness to buck a system. Or like most things in life, is it just plain old inertia?

Personally, I love the clover patch spread all over our front yard. The blooms smell wonderful throughout the summer and the bees it attracts would probably serve all our home-garden pollination needs (if we had any). They are nitrogen fixing plants that don't need extra watering or fertilizers to go forth and multiply.....all the way to the neighbors carefully weeded, manicured, fence less front yard. The crabgrass and dandelion join the party too, appearing on the other side of the property line, in abundance and with easily traceable ancestry.

Therein lies the proverbial rub.

Any fleeting fondness I might hold for the redoubtable clover is easily overshadowed by an unwillingness to displease neighbors, with their more exacting standards of neatness. Do I carry out MY moral imperatives at the cost of THEIR aesthetics? The answer's not as obvious as when I was arguing this just inside my head and without friendly interactions with said neighbors.

3 yrs ago we were new to the neighborhood and felt the need to solidify our 'good neighbor' creds.

I have diligently dug up/sprayed the dandelion for the past 3 years now.  Being held accountable by my young son who shared my very same moral quandary seemed like the worst sort of karmic retribution but I tell myself (and him) it's a good example of being a responsive community member.

Oyon, 6 - still broadcasting seed heads

Back then, I still couldn't help adding a moral 'out' (for both our sakes) by justifying that dandelion stole food from flowers that now can't grow big enough to give bees their nectar to make honey. I remember clearly that Oyon reacted by yelling 'Don't worry Mammam, I'll help!', ripped out the first few Crocuses of the season and commenced chasing a few buzzing yellow jackets yelling 'Come drink your connector, bee!'.

More recently, at a more coherent 5 years of age,  he had me transplant a clump of dandelion and clover to a planter for his room because he felt sad about killing them in the yard 'for the enighbors'. Yes, he'd drunk the Cool Aid by then. He wanted to 'save' some from some sense of fair play.

Didn't last a week in his care and I no longer have a 3 foot high conscience tickler around when I'm Dandelion-freeing our yard.

Good for me. 

I think.

I looked around and I saw.

200 yr old Charlestown Bridge. 10 yr old Zakim Bridge behind, TD Bankorth Gardens on the left, Charles River Locks, under.

Having unshackled myself from Facebook - and thus my iPhone- for a day-long Sabbatical, I went for a walk at lunch time.

I earn my bread in a venerable old building right by Boston's historic North End, within stone's throw of Charlestown and on the banks of the Charles River. Plenty of places that could let in some light.

A spot I knew by the river's edge called to me and I answered. I rested my elbows on the sun-warmed rails, felt the breeze play with my hair, allowed my shoulders to drop a bit and let my eyes wander.  Without any purpose whatsoever.

The USS Constitution in the Navy Yard, Charlestown

The masts on Old Ironsides across the water bristled as they have done for 200 odd years. Young women sunned their winter-bleached bodies gratefully on the slim green strips of grass. A man in black paddleboarded up against the current.  And I heard the quiet in my mind. At last.

Not really though. The Charlestown bridge rumbled un-rythmically from passing traffic. The river went about it's business with occasional swishes and gurgles. And a few distinct splashes that tugged at my now-adrift consciousness. I looked around for the source. Down by my feet, the water was it's usual murky green but punctuated by unusually large, bulls eye ripples. They dotted the water as far as I could see, timed to those sharp little splashes. Then something silver flashed just under the surface. A short distance away, another silvery flash. These too lined up with the splashes.

Of course. Fish.

I tried to collect more flashes that timed with the tinkling splashing, delighted at this novel symphony.

And so I looked. Really looked - at the murky depths. What was merely the motion of wave-creased water and the play of light a moment ago, transformed suddenly into a procession of striped little bodies, moving with astounding speed and determination. Each flash was a silver scaled body twisting up to the surface, catching and throwing back the light in its leap. Each splash marked its re-entry.

  And the more I looked, the more I saw.

The choreography that was only just revealed to my utter delight was a matter of routine for the tiny lives involved. While i focussed so intently on this amazing stream of life within the river, the traffic continued to rumble over the bridge. They silently rushed by for the 5 minutes I watched with my newly opened, awestruck eyes.

Charles River Locks

The Charles River locks were just a few hundred yards away and I remembered the fish ladders there, for young Shad, Alewife, Smelt and Herring to run.

A motorized boat with 3 young men drifted up and cast their fishing lines. They must have been watching their boat radars. By the time I'd turned my gaze down again to soak up more of the quiet but incredible energy roiling sub-surface, they were gone. I inadvertently froze, hoping someone would hit the 'play' button again.

Nothing.
They were gone.

I hung around as long as my conscience would let me: my work wasn't going to do itself. My increasingly desperate scanning of the murky depths for any darting colors or flashes of light revealed nothing.

I gathered together my disappointment and headed back to cubicle-land. I let go of the sun and air and mentally prepared to give myself up again to the stifling, controlled environment that would numb my senses while somehow opening up those mental facilities that let me be professionally effective.

Only a few paces before I would leave water and grass behind for the asphalt that led to my building, I caught sight of a newly sprouted Boston ivy creeper.

It had twined up an ugly chicken wire fence, spreading out it's finely veined, impossibly glossy new baby leaves to the light and burgeoning heat.

I thought of that faraway stream of young fish, swimming from their spawning grounds to their Lives out in the big, wide bay. The urban, resilient invasive ivy shoots forcing up from sidewalk cracks and around wire frames to claim their place.

So much life teeming around me, where I can't see or even guess at it.

My cubicle doesn't feel so stifling anymore.
 

If we need to, we know how

On the drive home from school yesterday my 6 year old told me his class earned extra playground time for doing so well in the 'lockdown drill'. Scared to even ask but I did and was rewarded by the non-chalance in his voice as he described hiding quietly in a closet upon hearing 'We are in lockdown!' on the intercom three consecutive times.
         The quiet crying I did for the next few blocks of the drive was as much for that non-chalance as for the indelible place 'lockdown drill' has now made in our memories of his childhood.
         When the Newtown shootings happened in 2012, I did not panic and rush to hug my child at the end of that day. My stomach still does a flip when I think of those little kids but I don't let myself go there very often. At the time, I channeled my fear instead into FB spiels about an over-sensational media that enables attention seeking psychopaths. Even got a petition started and wrote to a few papers.
         Our head space hasn't gotten any sunnier given that the past few weeks has forced us to tackle, with said 6 year old, why a couple of young men blew up 200 people at the Boston marathon, and then had us in a state of siege (we live a few miles from Watertown square where the showdown unfolded). Strangely though, all roads keep leading us to discussions about how NOT to be mad and make poor choices, how to instead do what we can to help each other out.

So I won't get any more maudlin than I already have about this now. Because this much is true: in the horrors that have unfolded in the public arena over the past few months, I've found myself thinking a WHOLE lot more about the power of goodness, kindness and Mr. Rogers' 'helpers' than ever before.
         In trying to equip our son with filters to help him see reality in shades of Hope, I've found them for myself. This too is possible then: angry, broken people who hurt others - can primarily inspire understanding and compassion and help highlight how much is right with the world.
          It didn't prevent me from crying at my son's casual acceptance of Lockdown Drills 'in case something dangerous is going on in school'. But it helped me turn a smiling face eventually to him and say 'I'm glad you did so well at the drill'.
His reply? 'Yeah, me too. We're probably not going to need it. But if we do, I'll know how. What's for dinner?'

And that's all there is to it, I guess.
If we need to, we know how.
In the meantime, life goes on.

Reality, reflected

Lying on our tummies, on a boardwalk stretching out over vernal pool. Not quite warmed by the weak spring sunshine. Grainy wood beneath our palms as we peer into the murky shallows. Seeing but reflections in a pool opaque in the reluctant sunshine.

Songbirds, newly emerged from a deep winter exile, lull us into lassitude with their calls. We gaze at clouds, water and our wavering silhouettes without really seeing anything. Then suddenly, somewhere - something shifts. Our focal length changes. Just like that - we can see now.
Below the ripples spreading out from the whirligig's hops and just under the lazily floating dots of algae....something just moved.

There.
And there.

This one has bulging eyes and a tiny gray toned body. Darting to and fro with elegance and speed. Mosquitoe larvae, we later find out to only a slight reduction in the romance of it (because even pests have an innocent start after all).

The other one has a notched tail with white streaks on its edge. Scuttles about on the many legs fringing its translucent, segmented middle . Fairy Shrimp, we are told.

There are more like these too.
Under, over, gliding, spinning, resting, teeming, seething life.
Under us, who are in turn pinned by the leaden sky.

Our heads that touched in delighted discovery part in time, to shake off the trance as the thrill pales. This window turns gracefully back into an obsidian mirrora and the secret world retreats.

Days later, the same heads touch in more delighted discovery. We turn the image of our reflection into an image of our reflection. Mixing paints with abandon on the painting software, we realize that a grey sky actually needs a little blue. The bare tree branches, gray from the winter, are really a little red. Half-focused eyes show us that swirly brush strokes don't make good clouds like we thought. Horizontal swaths of color, do.

There is no end, truly.

The photograph. iPhone.

The painting. 'Fresh Paint' program on Windows 8.

Hey there, young man!

'Hey, there young man!' he called out to any passerby over 6 and under 60. The women got 'lovely' or 'beautiful'.

And his smile. His smile.

He was peddling a newsletter called 'Spare Change'. The 'Homeless Empowerment Project' supplies it to the homeless for a pittance so they can sell for profit and find their feet.

Harvard square at 5:30 pm is bustling with life regardless of weather. On that 50 degree day at the end of a hard winter and frigid spring, you couldn't keep people in if you tried. Students and professors scurrying to meetings and appointments, tourists gawking, well-heeled couples ambling along to soak up the mild weather - all streaming through the area. The iconic 'Au Bon Pain' coffee store by the News Stand remains as good a spot as ever to people-watch as you wait for a friend.

I nursed my cup of Earl Grey and watched the peddler lob cheerful greetings and beaming smiles from the middle of the sidewalk at the human stream breaking around him. A few smiled back at him, even fewer bought a paper off him. Most ignored him. They swerved as far away as the available sidewalk allowed. Eye contact was avoided, chins tucked further in and even pre-emptive brush-offs executed with either a dismissive hand wave or an apologetic shrug.

The interesting thing was that he did'nt once, in my 20 minutes of fascinated watching, actively peddle. He did'nt push or hawk anything and his grin and cheer didn't waver a bit inspite of the relentless string of dismissals.

He eventually took a cigarette break, perching on the railing of the outdoor seating area near me to take a swig of water then light up. I went over and asked if I could buy a paper and a cup of something for him. Just because he made me smile. He told me he was fine but thanks for asking. I did'nt ask and he did'nt confirm that he was homeless. I told him I thought it was inspiring that he did'nt let the brush-offs get to him and confessed I was  much less patient than he. He grinned, shrugged and said 'Well, people, they're busy, you know?'. Or something like that. He let me take a picture for my blog, asked politely about it then thanked me for noticing his smiles.

There was too much dignity and kindness there for me to probe any further. Besides I did'nt even want to. His geniality might have just been sound sales strategy. Or he might have been adpet at that old Jedi mind trick we all know that let's us unhook our mouths from our mind, leaving the latter free to wander. I decided it was just his personality. Because it's a choice I am free to make. Also, it felt enough that I'd told him what I saw and that he heard me.

My freind Nan arrived on the sidewalk shortly after, scanning the crowded area for me as I tried to catch her eye.
She didn't see my frantic waving. But he did.
He called out to her and pointed my way.
When she'd set off towards me, he tipped his hat with one last brilliant smile and turned back to his sidewalk.

'A little bit of something' instead of 'a whole lot of nothing'

Yesterday a bomb took the life of an 8 year old boy at the Boston Marathon.
Actually, every day, bombs take the lives of innocent children in countries torn by violence.
But when young Martin, cheering on runners with his family at the finish line, paid the highest price for someone else's rage, it hit too close to home.

As we start to gather together our dismay into one big throbbing ball of horror at the world we are leaving to our kids, I think we should stop a moment to think.

Hasn't there always been rage and disproportionate responses in the world?
Haven't a few motivated people with grievances always crafted the shape of our future?
Haven't we always reacted bu first shrinking back in horror then striking out in rage against it?

And has this ever worked to correct imbalances?
No.
No amount of outrage will bring back that smiling 8 year old or piece back his family in their old image. Or fully restore any of the other victims. We cannot fix this anymore than we can un-scar Bostonians whose city and public spaces are now stripped of security and a feeling of belonging.

Oh, Bostonians will rebound, don't worry. Everyone rebounds.  But we can do more....instead of venting our our dismay and rage we can harness it. Amidst all that we CAN'T do right now is all that we CAN do with our mental energies.

We can seek to restore some balance by looking out for the things that are good and right amidst all this horror.

I'm not saying we embrace inaction and condone terrorism. Just that for the most part, terrorist acts are beyond our range of influence. But if we do pause to think of 'action' I can't see any better way to respond to those who seek to un-hinge us by showing cohesiveness that blasts THEM out of their socks.

So what IS within our reach? The community around us.
We can connect with other to ease our pain, support each other and help ourselves through the challenges we face every day. We can all care just alittle bit more, reach out a little bit more and feel the stable groudn beneath our feet when everything around us seems to be shaken by tremors. We cannot right all the wrongs but instead of doing a whole lot of nothing we can do a little bit of something.

I for one want to be more mindful about identifying Random Acts of Kindness (RAK) and enacting Incremental Change that Touches (ICT). To describe what is good an right about the world so that we feel motivated to do more of it.

Every.
Single.
Day.

Kindness and caring will spread and touch people as much as rage and despair but only if we are as effective in spreading it.

Will you join me in recalling a RAK and ICT every day?

A Random Act of Kindness (RAK) is something you have experienced, something you can describe as 'They didn't have to do this. But they did'. An Incremental Change that Touches (ICT) is something you might have done for someone, something you can describe to yourself as 'I didn't have to do this. But I did'. Not to be smug about it, but award yourself due respect so that you continue 'doing' instead of burning-out.

I'm not saying we unnecessarily exalt the regular compassion that every empathetic human ought to have. I don't think we should lower the bars of just regular humanity in any way. But when we focus on the horrors amidst us without giving fair time to the tiny expressions of thoughtfulness as well as the soaring acts of kindness that are there too, we demotivate our neighbors and describe a hopeless world to them. One that seems beyond their influence and that enervates them into being passive commentators. THIS is what fuels terrorism in my opinion: that people give up, give in and move just a small step at a time away from humanity in the grip of rage and despair.

So here's to celebrating all the good and giving small, small actions wings:

Random Act of Kindness (RAK): April 16, 2013
Thanks to the ice cream server at Moozy's ice-cream shop in Belmont.
    We ended up there yesterday after a hike with 6 yr old Oyon and his buddy Noah. She served Noah a  serving of gummy worm toppings that he belatedly asked for. Just so that his and Oyon's cone toppings would match. We hadn't paid for it and she brushed away my thanks.
She didn't have to do that. But she did.

Incremental Change that Touches (ICT): April 16, 2013
We didn't really help anyone in particular yesterday but we did share our hiking snacks and extra nature watching telescopes with 2 kids (and their Dad) whom we met in the woods. It enhanced our day as much as theirs. We connected to strangers instead of looking away.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oyon-isms:
 A weekend marathon of the Star Wars trilogy produced these interesting reactions:

Friday night = Star Wars:
Me (on first sight of the bad-guy Imperial star fighter): Wow! That is SO cool!
Oyon: Why did you say that?! Thaty's the bad guy! Yo'ure not supposed to say 'wow' to the baddies!
Me: But I think the space craft is cool, not the bad guys.
Oyon (a bit puzzled): Oh.

Saturday night = The Empire Strikes Back
Oyon's reaction to Yoda's age: "Yoda got 900 Christmases?!!"
After watching Chewbacca and the Ewok's bring down a bad-guy Imperial tank: That's easy! When I was at Fun World (an arcade), I defeated SO many of these!

Sunday night = The Return of the Jedi
Oyon: So Mammam, is 'the force' good or bad? Darth Vader was a bad guy and had it but so did Luke and he was a good guy!
Me: That's a tough one. What do YOU think?
Oyon: Maybe it's both? When Darth Vader hurt people it was the Dark Side, when Luke helped, it was good. So it's the stuff they DO with the force, I think..
Me: You know, I think I agree. Thanks for clarifying.
Oyon: You're welcome, Mammam.
 

Oyon, Noah, bare-feet tucked under the table after ruining shoes in muddy ponds hunting for fairy shrimp and faces tucked into generously awarded gummy-worm ice cream toppings. The good things in life are small.
 

Catharsis, confession and closure.

You know those ten ton anxiety bombs that fall whistling out of nowhere and level you emotionally? Good for you, if the answer is 'No, you loser!'.

I'm cleaning up the debris from more than a few such recent collisions.  Even as I make some progress towards avoiding them entirely.

I finally decided to write about this.
For catharsis, confession and closure.
To exorcise at least these particular demons and if only because the stress is giving me acidity. That in turn is doing a number on my gastronomic indulgences. And I do so so like to eat.

Here's a sparkling description of the visceral feel of anxiety from my freind Shreya:

             And though it's just an infinitesimal blot in the big picture of our lives, while it's happening, it feels like a free-fall into forever.

 

A 'free-fall into forever'.

Way to nail that feeling of being sucked inside-out: of having anxiety cramp up your muscles and squeeze the air out of your shocked lungs.

Shreya blogged this to qualify her insufficient angst over turning 40 but it applies pretty seamlessly to the many trivial freak-outs that embarass me once I recover from my tailspin and regain perspective.
So here are some utterly senseless yet stomach churning over-reactions from my recent past. The confessions are designed to embarass me even to myself in a half-baked attempt at preventative medicine:

Number inversion:
My 6 year old snuck in an unconsciously mirrored '9', '5' and '3' on a sheet of otherwise perfectly written numbers. For the Nth time.
             My resolve to let him remain pressure-free, account for age'n'stage (this kind of inversion is common in this age group) and not over-think things moved over for a few shorts minutes of panicked doubt over whether his day-dreaming isn't actually an undiagnosed  learning disability. I know it is'nt (and it would'nt be a big deal if it was). Common sense returned fairly quickly. But no more of these silly scares, thank you. There're already enough causes for real fear.

Mis-attribution of the spousal kind:
The husband posted a link to a song full of bitterness towards women on a common freind's FB thread about International Women's day (and don't even get me started on that load of crock).
             My heart hammered out, in accelerating rhythm, that his diatribe-by-proxy was directed solely at me instead of being the lighthearted exchange of meaningless banter that it really was. It took a couple of hours of feeling stung before this sheepish realization dawned (and I've had it more often than I'd like to admit lately): it isn't ALWAYS about me.
I need to hold onto that one. It's not as much a disappointment as it is a liberation...from bearing responsibility for other peoples' emotions. Especially when they did'nt even ask me to.

Over-critical critique
I think I may have over-harshly critiqued the writing of two freinds whom I admire as writers, in my writing  group. Part of the mandate of the group is to work on writing style so it was not completely out of line but perhaps I let myself go a bit too much with these two gals.
              One clammed up, giving me devastatingly guilty pause to consider if I'd broken her spirit when she had articulated and shared her thoughts with such brave conviction and trust. The other fought back articulately and convincingly from the corner I'd backed her into, making me feel like a heel for putting her there when she is so many miles more talented than I'd ever hope to be. The Fighter assured me she bended but didn't break and that my crtique was as constructive as it was harsh. The Quiet One has me still looking for the self-flagellating penance equipment I'd recently retired. She has lately been palling around with me on FB so I'm hopeful for a reprieve there too. I hold her dear.
But again, this sobering and liberating realization: I do not have the power I think I do over others.
I will rarely, if ever, make or break them with my words or thoughts.

Squeamish about romance
An honest discussion with a freind who is in emotional flux, over what he desires in his relationships by way of 'romance' birthed doubts about what 'romance', if any, there was in mine. Even more bone-chilling, the realization that I had given up on it as had hubby (who was also part of said discussion).
             Another squeeze of my heart and the cold chill of sudden certainty that the marriage was dead in the water. Followed by a brief exchange with hubby that helped the sun start to break through. Turns out that though neither of us have any of the popularly defined visions of  'romance' within our sight or memory, we've fair dollops of what makes us happy in our own closely matched definitions. The occasional 'good' conversation, exchanging hidden smiles over the antics of our whimsical progeny, sharing evanescent pleasures like the play of light'n'shade in a photograph and debating the alchemy of our favorite show that so deftly weaves cheesy drama with a rare idealism. On reflection, there have been overtly romantic moments too, though we did'nt waste time savoring the implict romanticism at the time and engaged in the moment instead. The postcard image that comes to mind is the worldess wonder of driving down a swooping, looping road in the Cape Breton hills of Nova Scotia last summer to suddenly come upon a snug little fishing cove, silvery in the sunshine. Or a giggling, stumbling moonlight walk in the forest on a camping trip after downing a half bottle of scotch, me trying to attribute 'the moon was a ghostly galleon in the sky' (while not falling down) to Hawthorne while he remembers it was really Tennyson even as he narrowly misses walking into a towering spruce. What's romance after all, if it isn't bumbling drunkenly around while spouting dubious poetry together and sharing a bottle of Gatorade the next morning for the hangover?

Cathartic rant over.

My position as the champ of over-thinking and senseless-worrying is undefeated and secure.
But I will have some hope, I think, as long as I let these things into the light of the day and free up my over-crowded mind for other, better thoughts.

No?

Oyon-isms (6 yrs):
Upon finding a nasty little scrape on his knee at shower time....
Me: When did you get this?
Oyon: During gym class, I think.
Me: It's kind of deep. Didn't it hurt?
Oyon: It did but I disturbed myself and it felt better.
Me: Huh?
Oyon: you know, I kept playing so my brain would not think about the pain.
Me: I see. I distract my brain too sometimes when i'm in pain. Would you like some ointment on that?
Oyon: That would be fine, thanks.

Of new moms and knuckle-dusters

I never intended to write a mommy blog but admit that the little ‘Oyon-isms' footer to every post screams that I missed by a mile. So I might as well jump in.  Here's something from my friend PSaw, a raw and honest opinion about what it really meant to be a new mother.

Am I normal? 
 
The fact of the matter is I hated being pregnant. Not being a morning person to begin with, I detested the fact that an already unpleasant part of my day was made unbearable by that nauseous acidic feeling in the pit of my stomach. Having struggled with my weight all my life, I hated getting even bigger. 
 
Have you ever wanted to punch those women in the face? … you know the ones who croon over their babies like they are perfect plastic dolls instead of a screaming mess of poop and puke.  And the ones that get that glassy eyed melodramatic look … ‘Oh I miss being pregnant! ….it was just so beautiful!’ 
 
Let’s set the record straight. It was uncomfortable, awkward and somewhat embarrassing.  One part of me thought that it was a ‘cool science fact’ that I could actually grow a whole human being inside myself and the same scientist in me was weirded out by the fact that I carried around a parasitic human for 8 months.  And let’s agree on one thing - nobody ever felt sexy when they’re the size of a house with the possible exception of Honey Boo-Boo’s mom. Of course, no one wants to **** her anyways.
 
Am I a normal mom?
 
So the big day arrived. Four weeks earlier than planned. He arrived with a little bit of a hullabaloo. My mommy wasn’t here. The nursery still had paint fumes in it. The crib and car seat were still in a box. And I had to be cut open to get him out. And then he added insult to injury with a big irritated hungry cry – ‘I am not going to suck on your big engorged boob. Sorry ‘eh mom?’ … but it’s not my type!’ So I took my stapled abdominals, my snubbed boobs, a hospital sack full of soy formula, and my Percocet-fuelled 3-eyed, long-armed zombie companions and came home to my 12-weeks of sanctioned maternity leave.
 
Have you ever wanted to punch those women in the face? … you know the ones who cry at the thought of leaving their babies for an hour or at the thought of returning to full time employment? Who cry at the thought of leaving their kid with the baby sitter? There were only so many ‘evil’ Sudoku puzzles I could solve before I called my boss and asked if I could come back to work, two weeks earlier than scheduled.  I researched and screened and interviewed a number of in-home baby sitters and day-care providers. And when I finally found the one – I was relieved to leave my son in her care before running to my 9 hours of normal working adult no-puke no-poop discussions. Three years on and not much has changed. I still need to get away and I still need respite. 
 
I admire, I truly do, women, who like my mom, stayed home and raised me... wasn’t I supposed to pay-it-forward? Am I not a normal mom? 
 
Am I not normal?

I love PSaw’s honesty and relate to much of her experience. I don't usually (note the qualifier please) share her urge for facial violence when faced with ecstatic new mothers though they did do a number on me in my first few weeks.

Already squirming at not being deluged by a gush of Mother love while grappling with my puling infant, those beaming Madonna’s tended to get my goat. Honestly, I felt little more than mild curiosity and intense anxiety for the new little man-child in our midst. Then I got myself even more confused that I didn’t feel any compunction about my lack of emotional high. Partly it was that my bandwidth was blown by recovering from childbirth and the critical learning curve the results brought. But I suppose I also had just enough faith in my capacity for love to know I'd come through for my ‘lil guy even if I wasn't staying up all night to adoringly watch him sleep in the early days. Well, I actually WAS given those relentless infant feeding cycles, but not from choice and not happily.

I didn’t want to deck the glowing new-Moms because I felt I got them most of the time and saw through them too occasionally. I decided that some of them were truly joyous about the experience and it was just a matter of taste: my inability to coo adoringly over a diaper blowout was probably matched by their inability or appreciate Marmite on toast. Different folks, different strokes. Others, I think, were playing a part unbeknownst to even themselves.

The fact is, a baby sometimes fills a void. Many of us plod along in our pre-set lives chasing degrees, careers, travel, half-hearted hobbies etc. until parenthood comes along to inject a sort of passion we've never felt before. I could be wrong but I think these are the folks who show the zeal of the new convert and make PSaw reach for her knuckle-dusters. I don't think they are posers or mean to condescend to the moms who're less gushy. Some have aspired to mom-hood all their lives and/or have maybe worked extra hard and long to get there. Their emotional highs seem fitting: well earned, deserved and easier to understand. Others see their lactating phase as some sort of biological validation that inspires, amazes and fulfills. I can understand this intellectually, even if I can't feel it emotionally. But these are the beaming Madonna’s who came by their haloes rightfully, in my eyes.

Just as many of us though, had a world outside of momhood and career - pre-baby - that we cherished and cultivated. There were  hobbies, friends, creative pursuits etc. I think these people split apart with a louder tearing sound. A part breaks off into a 'mom' shape but it has ragged edges and does not drift far from the rest of our persona. As our children become a more fixed part of our existence, that we can nurture and enjoy without the role being all consuming, the 'new love' wears off and is replaced by the quieter, stronger kind. I'm sure it's a Darwinian effect that moms are over-hormoned and somewhat obsessed in the early months when babies depend mostly on their mothers for survival. But it's also evolution that modern moms feel less anxiety and think more with the left side of their brain given the support they have. When you don’t have to worry so much about where the mammoth steak for dinner is going to come from or whether the velociraptor might sneak your baby away at night from your doorless cave, your mind has more space for other things. These are the people like PSaw, who love their children but equally love their lives outside of Mom-hood.

And here's my secret and rather incendiary theory about some of the Glowing Mothers amidst us: I think some of their euphoria is a subtle little piece of self-delusion. An unconscious coping mechanism for this overwhelming role of a lifetime. They convince themselves they LOVE their experience even though they do not (at least not all of it), because the alternate explanation scares them. There's little space for contradictory emotions in our judgmental societies, or even for degrees of belief. No one tells an expecting mom that you may not immediately love your child, will probably hate much of the first few taxing months but it will turn out just fine anyway. That would be too crushing and possibly a difficult admission to make for many women who are secretly distraught at their own mixed feelings about new-motherhood.

I think it’s partly due to the 'Supermom' ideal too. We expect to be stimulated by and excel in our careers while we achieve some sort of completion through motherhood. If we're not feeling gushy about our infants or fulfilled by our boobs-on-tap avatar we feel like bad mothers because of all we have absorbed about the 'natural mothering instinct'. On the other hand, if we don’t love rushing back to work (like we thought we would) because we inexplicably left our hearts at home in the crib, we doubt how independent or strong a woman we really are. Same for the stay-at-home-mom vs working-mom debate: you're taking the 'easy way out' in someone's eyes somewhere regardless of which cap you wear.

And what utter crap all this is.

The truth is that we can feel less than head-over-heels with our squirmy little babes and still love them to death when we're better acquainted with them and less physically over-worked. We talk of severe illness as 'trauma' but hesitate to label childbirth as such because of the negative connotations. If you ask me, it is a kind of trauma. One with a very precious outcome but it's overwhelming nonetheless. For most of us I think it's a difficult, difficult transition when we welcome a child into our lives and kicking sand over the grotty, ugly bits does no-one a service. I'm certain that most people feel like PSaw at some point or the other: drawn to the baby and wreathed in inexplicable smiles while feeling put-out at the overwhelming physical strain and mental dullness.

And I think we get confused by this contradiction of emotions.

How can we feel put-out by our little miracles? What does that SAY about us?

So sometimes we unconsciously amplify and glorify the beauty of it all to Just. Get. Through. The. Day. Because in our heads, all this pain, anxiety and tedium has got to be worth something......something worth giving up the job, abandoning sleep and good-health and shutting down a major part of the brain. Since that misty-eyed, redeeming moment of watching him graduate Summa cum Laude in crimson cap-n-gown is kinda far away, we seek and find it it in the more accessible (and realistic) joys. Like smiles and coos, impossibly delicate fingers curled up into tiny fists and those soft, whimpering sleep sounds. Alright, all that really is pretty adorable, regardless of your jaded-ness, but you get my drift. We can be emotionally moved and feel deeply satiated at the sight of our fragile infant even while part of our brain flops around in boredom. But what a confusing cocktail of emotions!

I won't even start on the unfair bias towards the‘Maternal Instinct’ that leaves fathers in the proverbial dust. I think it’s unfair and tragic that the many, many fathers with instincts to rival or beat the mothers’, receive no acknowledgement r respect. My son’s dad was as instrumental in deciphering infant cries and solving feeding dilemmas as he is now in teaching endurance and toughness, which is still the stereotypical realm of Paternal duty. Our baby would calm down as quickly in his dad’s hairy arms and on his hard chest as he would with me. No matter how much we ‘modern’ women like to boast about the equal parenting rhythms we have struck, we seem to pull back from that final acknowledgement that our husbands might have an instinct that is on par with ours even without the parturition credentials.

My point (if there even is one) is that it takes all kinds and every method of parenting is the right one so long as it grows happy, cherished children.

So everyone - take off your halos and put down those knuckle-dusters.

Its all good.

Oyon-ism

On replying to a question after claiming to not know the answer the first time he was asked:

Me: How come you didn't tell me this when I asked before?

Oyon: Because it just made it's way to my brain

Me: Oh? Where was it before?

Oyon: I'm not really sure. But it wasn't in my brain. It just got there.

'Slip sliding away'

My car danced to a Paul Simon tune in this morning's snow storm. It started 'slip sliding away' as I took a left turn.

The graceful spin swung me into oncoming traffic in the next lane. Uneventfully. The creeping cars had halted in time and left just enough space for my skid to achieve completion. Since the only thing to do in a skid is ride it out, i was as much a spectator as they. A few seconds worth of Eternity. In the short pause that followed after I'd finally stopped skidding, I looked at the cars frozen still around me. Through the snow filled air, I thought I glimpsed a bobble hatted head peering at me from the nearest car.

From concern, I decided, and gave them a reassuring little wave. Just in case.

Behind me the three MBTA buses, that moments ago had honked in symphony to speed up the left turn that I was gingerly taking, seemed silenced by contrition. They waited patiently as I straightened out and gently guided my wonderfully snow worthy Subaru back into it's rightful lane.

Finally parked at the sparsely populated train station (folks must be taking a snow day off from work, rightfully), I flicked up the windshield wipers in preparation for the additional foot of snow we would receive by the time I headed back home. Then I settled in for my short wait until the train arrived.  The cell phone showed missed calls from my husband. From 90 deg F Kolkata where he was attending to family matters. He had worriedly been planning and orchestrating our snow removal and safety in his absence.

When I returned his call the background noise was cacophonous. The usual honking, hollering and car/bus noises that their Kolkata flat is immersed in. Inside my car, enveloped in that preternatural hush that only thickly falling snow brings, it was surprisingly reassuring to know that we could have such diversity and still keep spinning on our axis.

I reassured him that we had easily dug out of the 4-6 inches that fell overnight (Oyon being worth his weight in gold for the way he cleaned off my car windows!). He reassured me that the 50 degree forecast for the weekend pre-empts any real concern: residuals would melt.

I found I didn't want to tell him about the skid right then. Not the least because the commonplace nature of it made it unremarkable. Also because I didn't want him to worry any more. I wish I could have told him though how calming it felt to be able to handle that skid. How it might have turned out much more unpleasantly if I had not heard his voice from 16 yrs ago advising me to shelf instinct, stay off the brakes and steer into the skid.

I deal with most icy-road missteps in my stride, like most people in this area, and seldom even remember that I've had them by days end. But today felt different.

Maybe it was because Oyon had ended up wailing in the car as we finally set out for school. His boots and gloves had gotten wet and he was freezing. Perhaps it was because my head ached so badly from exposure and remnants of Chicken Pox that I had yelled at him to just deal with it and quit crying. He had wailed even louder then shouted 'But I HAVE to cry. I'm so cold it hurts. This is the worst day ever!' . I snapped out of it just enough to go back in the house to fetch him dry socks and a blanket for the frigid car interior. I also doled out an apology and a hug. Not his fault my head hurt.

I guess I'd been skidding off track since 6 am when I woke up with that achy head. Recovering from the car skid was the easiest of them all. And I felt grateful for the person who hovered protectively in my life, even from thousands of miles away and 16 years ago.

Oyon-ism
Oyon: Did you watch 'woody woodpecker' when you were little too?
Me: Yes.
Oyon: I thought so. The show looks very, very old.
 

How Chicken Pox made someone's day

Ever brush with your child's 'bubble gum' toothpaste instead of the usual enamel-saving formula that tastes like the inside of a gas tank? I have. While my enamel quietly groaned, my tongue practically sang. The whole day tasted better thereon. I've never had a nicer mix-up.

Which is more than Yash can say over at  her blog Y on earth not: she and her hubby tried to get the Flu vaccine but ...read it for yourself. Pretty funny, the way she tells it, though harmless in the end.

This reminded me of our own latest brush with bewildering medical advice.

One Wednesday a few weeks ago my husband and I woke up ill and itchy. Strongly suspecting that we had contracted Chicken Pox from my MIL who was suffering from Shingles at the time, we presented our spotted, miserable selves to the emergency walk-in clinic. Our regular docs offices weren't going to open for another couple of hours and there were decisions to be made about whether or not we should to go to work, run errands, breathe around other people etc. A hasty web search early that morning had revealed the typically varied advice you usually get when you put your faith in essentially unnamed sources dispensing cyber wisdom. It ranged from informing us that we were safe and  couldn't infect people unless we draped our naked selves over them to that we were practically radioactive and could create polka-dotted zombies just by looking at them.

Confused, ill and feeling not a little harassed, we entered the 24 hr walk-in clinic carefully, trying not to touch anything with our potentially poxy bodies and apologetically disclaiming to anyone we could make eye contact with that we might be infectious. Inspite of all our scoffing at alarmist internet advice we'd taken to heart the severity of the risk to pregnant women and immuno-compromised people.

Our unusual request to be seen jointly was hastily honored, probably because the nurse wanted to minimize the number of surfaces that would have to be disinfected with antibacterial wipes. Or maybe with a flamethrower, given how many bugs are circulating this miserable, awful winter.

Those hospital issue johnnies don't do anything for comfort or ego even on a 'well visit' when all the doc will be doing is asking you to breathe. (By the way, I don't really get that request: what else  do they think we might be doing with our lungs? The Salsa?) That particular day, with our heads aching and bodies throbbing with low grade fevers and itchy blisters, sudden rushes of chilly air in unexpected places were decidedly not welcome. Besides, mid-calf length trouser socks on bare legs is not a good look on anybody, leave alone a 41 year old woman and her hairy legged husband.

The biker chic doc on call eventually bounced into the examining room in thigh high leather lace-up boots, a black miniskirt (with black tights), and a wild blond mane haloing a much-too-upbeat grinning face. While she cheerfully examined our blisters/spots, we brought her up to speed on the Shingles-at-home and no-pox-as-kids situations. My husband asked her if she thought we had Chicken Pox. Her chirpy response?
"Well, I really don't know. Let me go Google what the blisters look like."

We stared at each other in disbelief (and tried not to scratch) while she did the needful.
We knew of an anti-viral drug that minimizes the intensity and duration of Shingles (which is also triggered by the dormant Chicken Pox virus) thanks to my MIL's recent experience. When we asked her about it's possibilities for us ......

Sigh.

After denying any such thing existed she took one look at our distraught faces, seemed to read our invisible thought bubbles screaming 'OMG! Who IS this?' and quickly changed tack. She conveniently remembered that there was indeed an anti-viral drug out and handed us a 'scholarly article' on the role of anti-virals, because 'you guys seem to be scientists'. The only even remote reason I can think of for said assumption was that we had made appropriate use of the word 'antibodies'. So I 'm fairly certain it was  a bumbling effort to redeem her creds with us while playing to our egos - unsuccessfully, I might add.

When pressed for an answer about said meds, she delivered some airy non-statement about how we could take it if we wanted after consulting our primary physician.
If we want it?! How do we know if we want it?!
And isn't the word here 'need'?

I usually love the democratic doctor-patient dynamic in the US, I really do: I appreciate being talked to instead of being talked down-to, being educated about my health and having my options laid out so I can excercsie free choice. But time and again, the free choice credo frustrates me when it comes to critical matters. After being told that adult chicken pox can rapidly and suddenly lead to complications like severe Pnuemonia and Encephalitis, I need to be treated ASAP, not have a long discussion about ethics and social responsiblity of antibiotic over-use. Not that she actually went there exactly, but...

As we gave up and mournfully trooped past her on our way to go consult a REAL doctor (this one had summed up her sage advise by suggesting we just 'ride it out folks!'), she actually clapped her hands in glee and squealed "Yay! I've seen Chicken Pox now!"

I believe I muttered a resentful 'I'm SO happy for you' but the sarcasm was lost on her.

Our regular doctors put us on the anti-virals, told us to get rest and ended our saga of uncertainty.

But the next time I need emergency care for sudden spots, I'm visiting the vet: they know about chicken. Maybe they'll know about pox.

Oyon-isms:
Oyon (out of nowhere):   Do you know what 5 plus 4 is Mummum?
Me (thinking it's a trick question):  17?
Oyon (not rising to the bait):   9. Do you know why?
Me (intrigued by his gravity now): Why is it 9 Oyon?
Oyon: Because 5 plus 5 is 10 and 4 is 5 minus 1. So it adds up to 10 minus 1. Super-shmooper cool, huh?!

The conversation that followed this one - but only after a respectful 2 minutes silence to mull over the awesomeness of Math - revolved around how we could protect corn crops without using insecticides. He was excited about a new machine he'd build that would extract the bugs one by one (instead of crop-dusting them to death) and store them in a large warehouse where we would feed them Pop Tarts we bought from the store. Why Pop Tarts? So they would leave the corn alone for people to eat.

But that one's for another day.