Chemotaxis Reigns!

     

1975 twenty something

        Last week at one of our virtual events, a storyteller read a poem she wrote when she took an anatomy class years ago. The poem was filled with the names of the bones of the head – and the words sounded so erotic! We were all fanning ourselves by the time she was finished. And I was reminded of a much lesser poem filled with biology terms - a poem I wrote one day in college when I should have been studying. And here is the story that goes with the poem.

       During my entire senior year of college, there was a guy I hung out with at the library before and between classes most days. After a while I realized I liked him a lot. Sometimes we hung out at the bars or college parties together too. It was clear though, I liked him a whole lot more than he liked me.

       Heavy sigh.

       And one Saturday morning, when I should have been studying my histology notes, my mind kept drifting to plans for that evening. I was going out somewhere with friends, I can’t remember the occasion now, but I can picture a bar – maybe that's all we were going to do, hang out at the PM - Park Meadow, or Allens or somewhere. My young man was going to be there too.

       So, I sat at my Grandmother’s dining room table with my textbooks and notebooks open that morning. The plan was to study all day. But the histology terms kept mingling with thoughts of the evening, and that, you know, was the perfect mix for the creation of... a poem!

       The day soon became devoted to the creation of lines that rhymed, anatomical terms swirling with romance. Ah, and you know it is so sad because I was not even a silly teenager at that point. No, I was a goofy twenty-something.

       I liked the finished product – it was so clever

       That evening, I took a ragged folded piece of paper from my pocket, trying to underplay my excitement, and I showed the poem to my young man. He was a biology major too, and even though he was not taking histology that semester, he could surely have appreciated the wittiness of the rhymes, the genius of my ability to turn a phrase. But the poem did not turn his mind to thoughts of romance, alas, or even acknowledgment of what a fun person I was.

His loss.

One day three years ago I wrote up a story about an awkward gift I had once given a guy. (Hey! that one can be my next post!) And afterward, the memory of the histology poem came to mind. I did not have a copy of it anywhere, but the more I thought about it, the more I was able to reconstruct. Proof that I am still so tickled by my cleverness after all these years! After googling a few vaguely familiar terms, the entire poem was back! And here it is today:

Through the interstitial lamellae

That have too often clouded the view

In a distant far off osteon

I first set eyes on you

Though others lay down matrices

Creating a diversion

They could never osteolyze

The desire for my canal Haversian

Tonight, at last chemotaxis reigns

And all my dreams come true

For in the nearest Volkmann’s canal

We shall have a rendezvous

Tonight we meet and as the saying goes

Rightly when two lovers meet

Together we shall

Anastomose

       Well, I did not promise you it was good poetry!

      And not even a good poem could have helped me get the guy. Not that it was an awkward gift – for our whole beyond-the-library life was awkward.

      But the poem made me smile back then. And it still does.

20200818 65 Chemotaxis Reigns

The Sound of One Girl Shoveling

 

     

Mike nesting another afternoon

     Tuesday Mike came home at noon, and from his little nest in the living room, he spent the afternoon attending a virtual industrial hygiene conference! I was scanning an old folder from one of my piles next to the computer here in the sun-room Then I ate a leftover half a burrito for lunch at the table in the sun-room while watching a new episode of the Young and the Restless on my iPad. Next I mowed the yard, neglecting to wear a face-mask and getting consequent yard dust stuck up my nose! Returning inside, I wrote out three get well cards to friends, hurrying before the mailman came down the road. And then I contemplated a shower.

Nesting in the morning

     While doing all this puttering, I was wanting to start the dishwasher. But the noise from the dishwasher might interfere with Mike and the conference. It was fun to hear Mike move from room to room virtually. He is always good at making small talk. After a while, I realized Mike was visiting vendors, just like he was at a live conference – stopping and introducing himself, describing what he does and where he works, then saying well, it's time to move on. And then he would do the same thing all over again – the only difference being the other side of the conversation at each stop and the occasional expression of genuine interest in what was being vended.

     The only difference between chatting with vendors from the living room and doing it in person was no freebies! No pens, sanitizers, stress toys – shucks! But then again, being perched in one's nest has tons more advantages.

Mike nesting after work

  Getting the dishes done before dinner was not imperative, and yet, it kept cycling back to the forefront on my list of things to do. Finally, I heard the words of my Uncle John, and I turned on the dishwasher.

     Was the noise going to bother Mike?

     Not at all.

     When I moved to my grandmother's for college, she was living in the upstairs of a duplex owned my her son, my Uncle John, who lived in the downstairs unit with his wife. Uncle John was a truck driver, a proud teamster, who drove at night. He would get home around 8 or 9 in the morning and go to bed. After the first snowstorm of the first winter my freshman year, I thought I'd shovel the driveway. There was no snowblower, neither was there a truck or person hired to do the job.

     Shoveling the driveway was a big task, and scraping the cement when I finally reached the pavement, was noisy. I tried to do it as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb Uncle John's sleep inside. After a while, I saw blinds rise, and Uncle John opened the window. Both arms were stretched at the top of the window ready to pull it closed again as he leaned out smiling at me. I figured it was a polite smile as Uncle John looked to see what the noise was all about.       

Uncle John, Aunt Ruth 1978

“Hi! I hope I didn't wake you with my snow shoveling?”

     “No one has ever been bothered by the sound of someone else shoveling the snow!”

     Truer words were never spoken!

     And no one would ever be disturbed by of the noise of someone else vacuuming the rug.

     And no one in his right mind would complain of the sound of someone or something else washing the dishes.

     None of that is noise at all, no, it is music to one's ears!

20200813 64 The Sound of One Girl Shoveling

Breakfast of Champions

Three years! That's how long it took me to pass my beginner's swim test when I was in grade school! I would go on Saturday mornings all the way in to the Hamburg High School pool for lessons. Often riding with my best friend, Diane, and another classmate, Jane, who lived further up Heinrich Road, on the section that was years later pinched off by the highway that came through, our parents took turns driving. Well, I'm assuming now that they took turns, the only one I remember driving us is Jane's Dad who would have us in stitches laughing the whole time. And I guess we did not go every Saturday morning, but it would be several Saturdays in a row – perhaps it was Saturdays during the school year.

And in spite of my thinking how mortifying it would be to come home with a bad report card, it seemed to be all right that I kept failing my beginner's swim test. My parents thought it was funny that I was too weak, too uncoordinated to swim. And I don't recall trying particularly hard to master the techniques, no personal pressure. So it took me three years. Did Diane and Jane fail alongside me? Likely not – it's just in my memories they were there with me the whole time.

Now our instructor was an older man, Mr. Roerke – something like that, and he was only old to me because he was perhaps a little older than my parents. He was slightly famous – the superintendent of the Hamburg School system! I did not know what a superintendent was, but figured he was someone of authority and I should maybe be afraid of him.

First thing he would make us do when we arrived for our lesson on Saturday mornings was......get in the water!

Oh, but I always wanted to ease myself into the pool. After all, the temperature would take some getting used to!

But no! He was not going to wait all day for kids like me to have that luxury.

“Best thing is to just jump in!” he would bellow to all of us, good-naturedly, but still....

So I would jump in, or, if already trying to ease in, I would take the plunge. And a shock would whip through my system and I felt like my heart would stop!

“No one ever had a heart attack jumping into a swimming pool!” Mr. Roerke would shout and then chuckle above the splashes.

I read just recently, in Google, so you know.....people can indeed get a heart attack from the shock of submerging into cold water! So there's that.

Of course, the Hamburg High School swimming pool was not that cold, and as a healthy child, my heart was hearty. But sometimes it did feel as if the ticker would conk out on me!

Once we were in the water, Mr. Roerke would tease us about our inability to climb back out again at the sides of the pool when it came time to practice dives. Our arms were weak – and not just mine, as we attempted to pull ourselves out, often falling back in the water again.

“Looks like some of you didn't have your Wheaties for breakfast this morning!” came his bellow as he stood so tall leaning over the edge of the water at us

How could a line like that not last a lifetime?

How many times have I said that to my kids, other kids, my husband, over a slip during the day, “Someone's missing Wheaties today!”

Mr. Roerke was never impatient with me or made personal snarky comments about my not trying hard enough – no pressure other than the jumping in and climbing out. And that was nice – compared to the rest of my schooling. I think it was the diving that kept me from passing the beginner's test three times in a row. And by the third time, I was afraid to pass for fear that the advanced beginner's course would require more strength and more diving and I didn't want to do it!

These days, on summer Saturday mornings, Mike takes us out on the boat. He drops anchor in the lake or one of its rivers or creeks. I ease myself and finally plunge into the water. The water is very warm, but I don't want to take chances on shocking the system because, you know, Google says....

couldn't find a noodle picture

And I don't swim much, but I can – it's just I find swimming a tad boring. Much more fun is being held afloat by one of those noodle things – basking in the water in the sun – stretching my arms and legs and toes. Mike and I often have the most unique chats on our noodles. One day I told him all about my grade school swim lessons, and not surprisingly, Mike found them to be believable! Getting out of the water, it's not Wheaties that help me get back into the boat, but rather a small ladder, and a handle.

When riding on Mike's boat, I am a good many miles and years and years away from Hamburg and those morning lessons – but I still smell the chlorine and hear the splashes and feel my youth again each time I take the plunge!

20200803 63 Breakfast of Champions!

No Names

Last week Mike and I stopped in at a Waffle House for breakfast. Plexi-glass was up between the booths. Waitstaff was face-masked. We took our masks off to eat. Fiesta omelet I shared with Mike once he finished his egg sandwich.

On the wall I happened to notice a plaque of appreciation – a local cheer-leading squad thanked this Waffle House for its sponsorship for a season. The squad had a cute name – something like the Candy Caners. And this got me to remembering the Nu-Tones and the No Names.

It was back when I was still grade school age. My best friend, Diane, had a brother who played little league baseball in the summer. Sometimes I went to his games with Diane's family. The uniforms intrigued me. Boys wearing outfits like the men wear in games on television!

And the names of the teams were on each shirt. One year Jimmy was on the Nu-Tone team. Which seemed like a cool name although I did not get what it meant. Gradually I came to know that Nu-Tone a furniture store in Hamburg – the nearest town to us that was big enough to have a furniture store in it. That's a catchy name for a store. I still don't quite get it, but being stuck in my head for all these decades means it was clever enough to be memorable!

One night the Nu Tones played a team called the No Names. Now that was really cool! It got me to fantasizing when I grew up I'd have a team or a club or something and call it the No Names – we would be mysterious, infamous – for what? Well that would all fall into place later.

It turned out, I had a slight connection to the team! The No Names were sponsored by my mother's boss! Mom worked for a lawyer, Mr. Danieu. And back then, lawyers were not allowed to advertise. The kids on the baseball team were looking for a sponsor, and not knowing any better, asked Mr. Danieu if he could sponsor them for the season. Not wanting to turn the kids down, he agreed to donate the money for their uniforms as long as they did not put his name on them. I don't know if it was Mr. Danieu or the team coming up with No Names. I can still picture the boys running the bases - No Names on their backs.

Oh how the times have changed! These days lawyers can advertise. And they advertise to the extent that they hijack whole Sunday afternoon movies on the television to tell you how to join their class action suits! And why shouldn't they advertise? They are providing a service in letting people know who to call if they have been wrongly injured.

The commercials also provide another service. They take me back to the ball game: Peanuts and popcorn and No Names on their backs!

20200731 62 No Names

Perfect Parking Place

   

 My daughter, Sarah, runs. She runs many miles every week. Saturday is her long day. Sometimes on Saturdays, Sarah will run 23 miles! The rest of her family runs too. Her daughter, Virginia, often runs with Sarah. Virginia has not done a 23 mile Saturday yet. But last Saturday they both ran the Whitewater 12 wherein they both ran, yeah, 12 miles!

     One day back when they were still living in Chapel Hill and I was visiting, Sarah and I went to a restaurant. Sarah was driving. We arrived at the plaza, and Sarah went down a narrow alley where there was a small area that can hold about 4 parked cars, right in front of the sidewalk to Elmo's. The likelihood of the four spaces being already taken was high which would necessitate Sarah's turning around, going back down the alley and then parking in the lot behind the plaza. This struck me as an inefficient way of going about parking.

     To Sarah's delight, and my chagrin, a space was available in the small lot. She parked the car.

     Why is it that someone who runs long distances still wants the parking spot closest to the store? I have always found this a mystery. People will waste gas waiting for closer parking spots to become available. Some folks drive up and down and up and down aisles of parked cars looking for the closest spots. They likely do this at the gyms where they pay money to exercise but feel compelled to park as close to the front door as they can.

     I myself prefer the sure thing. The first space I see I am likely to park in. The time it takes me to walk into the store or restaurant is less than the time it would take to find a closer spot. And I don't mind the walk, of course. Exceptions would be if it is raining, or if I would like to look for a spot where I can pull up such that I won't have to back out when I leave – the Jeep is fickle lately in getting into reverse. So if I don't mind a longer walk, why do others – especially the exercising others?

     It is really very simple. When I asked Sarah why she had to get so close to Elmo's, she said, “It's the challenge, Mom.”

     And that explains it perfectly!

     Why does my husband have to do several things at once when he is driving? Mike fiddles with the radio – he doesn't change stations so much as he plays with the tone and all those other audio buttons that I could go my whole life without even knowing those adjustment possibilities existed! He sets the cruise control and resets, and releases and resets. The air conditioner, heat, fan need to be touched repeatedly. Sometimes my dearest has a cup of coffee in one hand, the hand that's kind of controlling the steering wheel while adjusting the air, radio, cruise control with his other hand while on the six-lane highway that is I-85!

Mike runs and bikes sometimes

     It makes me so nervous. And I have to keep telling myself that Mike likes the challenge of balancing all of those things at once and really is in control. I almost convince myself.

     I won't even mention how the phone mixes into his driving – catching a glimpse of a text that beeps its arrival or looking at the map to see if there is a faster route. “Oh we've just lost two minutes!” Mike sometimes exclaims while looking to change lanes and possibly catch another route. And I do try to tell myself that when he turns the volume up on the radio just as I start talking it is more that he's just compelled to do something with his hands while listening to me rather than that he is hoping to drown me out – but I guess that is a whole 'nother can of worms.

     Anyway, what do I challenge myself with? Well, it is not searching for what others might call the perfect parking spot or juggling several operations while driving a vehicle.

     One of the personal challenges I have occurred to me after a discussion one recent morning with my darling husband. A discussion about the thermostat. Our electric bill for this month was $111 – which is surprising considering how hot it has been. Apparently the air conditioner has not run as much as we thought. Some summer months in the past, the bill has been much higher. Mike's thought upon hearing this month's bill is "perhaps we can afford to have the house a little cooler! " And my thought was, “I know we can get it lower than $111 next month!”

     So you can guess why this started a bit of a dialog!

     Growing up in the snow-belt of Western New York, well, we were always a little chilly in the house in the winter – it was too expensive to make things comfortably warm. And it was always a little, a lot, hot in the summer – air conditioning for such a short season was too extravagant. I got used to being a little uncomfortable each season -  it was economical, efficient, smart.

     When I was working in Western New York – there were actual lunchtime boasts of whose home thermostat was lower than anyone else's. Co-workers bragged of having only enough heat in their homes to keep the pipes from freezing. In my own apartment during the winter, I tried to have the temp no higher than 65 – but the heating bill was still high, and I was always cold – not a happy medium.

I got this

     But I guess that is where I got the challenge – from childhood on - I can control utility bills, just watch me!

     This makes Mike nervous.

     And just like I told him that morning, he is not getting the last word on this.

     Excuse me while I go turn the thermostat up – and I'll keep it parked there while Mike is at work all day.....!

20200722 Perfect Parking Place

Here's Your Message/Ready to Send It?

Gotta love him!

     Have you ever had a Captain Kirk versus the computer moment, with either your Siri or Alexa, confusing her to the point that you are sure she is going to start sputtering “Norman, Coordinate!” ? On Star Trek, The Original Series, there are a handful of episodes where Kirk has a verbal tug-of-war with a computer, and he always wins, causing smoke to issue from virtual, ears and there is a complete shutdown of the seeming foe – Man over machine! Humans over logic!

A man and his phone

     One day while I was out driving, running errands, I asked Siri on my phone to please text my husband. When I was finished dictating the text, Siri said, “here's your message/ready to send it?” Usually I respond with, “yes please,” but on this occasion, I happened to say “I am.”

     Then all kinds of fuses started going off in my brain. My “I am” merely meant, “Yes, I am ready for you to send the message.” But suddenly, the uttering of “I am” took me back to my school days and the Old Testament. Moses asked God what His name is, and God responded “Yahweh” which in translation means, “I am.”

     In the space of time it took me to think all of that, Siri said, “I do not understand. Here's your message/Ready to send it?”

     I laughed out loud.

     Siri does not consider “I am” a “yes, please send”? So then, what is “I am” to her?

    Could it be Yahweh?

one with nature!

    Is there a computer Yahweh? Or is Siri's Yahweh the same as ours?

    When she heard me say “I am,” did she think of me as a pretender, or was she genuinely confused – like, was Yahweh talking to her? Could the Jeep be her burning bush?

     So many possibilities! It tickles me that Siri did not comprehend “I am.” Well, she said she did not.

     There are times since then I answer Siri's “are you ready to send” with “I am” - not to confuse her but because it is just a reflex response.

     She doesn't say “I don't understand” anymore. Siri merely refuses to acknowledge I've spoken at all! And when I realize she's still waiting for an answer, I say, “Yes, please.”

     Siri might think she has me trained, and it is of course totally okay that she does not think of me as Yahweh, but I still consider the incident a win – another one for the humans!

    Ready to send it? I am!

20200720 60 Ready to Send It?

Hello Love

     So, it seems fitting to honor my Dad on his actual birthday today with another Dad-related story that was put together recently. This one is Hello Love.

   

Sarah

Sarah was almost three years old in the spring of 1987. Her sister, Amanda, was only a few months old. We were living in Oklahoma, near Bartlesville. Back then, catalogs arrived in the mail almost daily. Pretty Good Goods was a catalog that caught my eye for the cute and quirky items inside. I did not know at the time, but the catalog was published by one of the public radio stations and a lot of the merchandise inside related to the Prairie Home Companion radio show.

     I was familiar with the show back then. But I was not a regular listener. And so when I picked out the red sweatshirt from the catalog that said Hello Love, on the front, I did not connect it with a song that Garrison Keillor sang frequently on Prairie Home Companion.

     It was just that I liked the sweatshirt!

     And I decided to order it for my dad for Fathers Day.

     When the Hello Love, sweatshirt arrived in the mail, I opened the package, unfolded the shirt, smiled, and then started to rewrap it to send to Dad.

     But then I got the idea to put the sweatshirt on Sarah and take her picture.

Amanda!

     Then I put Amanda in her baby swing and draped the sweatshirt over her. I took her picture.

     Back then, we had film in cameras – film had to get developed. So I waited for the prints of the two pictures, and put them in the box with the sweatshirt for Dad.

     My folks lived in St. Augustine, Florida in those days. I assumed the package arrived in time for Fathers Day, and I enjoyed the thought of Dad and Mom seeing not only the sweatshirt, but the pictures of the girls with Hello Love,.

     It was either the week after Fathers Day or maybe the week after that when we received a letter in the mail from St. Augustine. Mom wrote that Dad thanked us for the Fathers Day sweatshirt. And then along with the letter were pictures:

Mom

     One with Mom wearing Hello Love,

     And one with Dad wearing Hello Love,

Dad

     Smiling with absolute delight over the pictures, I

then discovered there was a third snapshot in the

Clancy - gotta love him!

envelope!

     This is none other than my parents'Clancy cat clearly enjoying his moment in the spotlight with the sweatshirt held up in front of him!

Who knows where the sweatshirt is today? But the pictures are here – still saying Hello Love after all these years!

20200621 59 Hello Love