The Aerie
 | There was the time in the high school lunch room, when he was eating some of these new, imported German candies called "Gummi Bears," and I made a joke, and he snorted a gummi bear out his nose. It was years til he lived that down. That Christmas his sisters gave him a bag of Gummi Bears.
And I remember the time after high school when we were in my parents' basement and Tim and I were running a game of Dungeons and Dragons. I said "You enter the crypt, and see a pale, well dressed man rise up out of the coffin." |
| Steve and me in a high school play, 1978 | Moldy asked, "Does he have a cape on?"
"No," I replied, "There are no chickens anywhere in sight..." |
|---|
| Then there was the time Moldy, Tim and I were standing in line for a horrible movie ("Return to Oz"). We were joking,exchanging lines from a Saturday Night Live sketch in which Gilda Radner sold "a dessert topping that's also a floor wax!" We reached the front of the line and Moldy ordered a popcorn. |  |
Without missing a beat, and with a perfectly bored expression, the girl behind the counter said, "Would you like some floor wax on that?" | Moldy, me, and Tim, 2003 |
|---|
 | I remember the time we were in my Mazda RX-7 driving home from seeing "Altered States" in the theater. It was snowing, and a pickup truck with Oklahoma plates was crawling too slowly through the snowstorm for my teenaged patience. Well, and it didn't have mud flaps, so it was throwing slush on my windshield.
As I pressed the gas pedal I discovered this thing called "passing gear" which I had never heard of before. |
When Moldy was in his band, the "Strappin' Daddy-Oh's" | The engine screamed, the back of the rear-wheel drive car passed the front, and we slid past the nose of the pickup with inches to spare. I still have the image of Maw, Paw, and Becky Sue Oklahoma staring out the windshield at us, their mouths perfect "O"s of surprise as we slid into the ditch. |
|---|
 | Glancing over my shoulder I saw a telephone pole racing towards us, so I leaned forward over Moldy's lap. There was an enormous slam and the car stopped. Moldy and I looked out the windshield, and the telphone pole was still there.
"I guess we missed it" I said, trying to straighten up off Moldy's lap and failing. Something was preventing me from sitting up. "I don't think so," he replied and pointed. |
We'd gone through the telephone pole, and like a cartoon it had slammed right down on its stump. The pole was swaying gently from side to side, supported only by its wires. I looked to see why I couldn't sit up off Moldy's lap. The four-foot chunk of telephone pole was embedded in the side of the car, tipping the driver's seat up against my butt. If I hadn't leaned over Moldy's lap, I'd've been dead. |  |
Moldy at his benefit in 2003 |
|---|
 | A few years later Moldy, Todd and I were crammed into the front seat of my Ford Galaxie 500, huddled against the subzero cold. We were driving to judge a speech meet on a Saturday morning. As we rounded a curve in the freeway, I suddenly felt an odd, loose sensation in the steering wheel. |
| Me caught behind Moldy | "Did you guys feel that?" I said, puzzled. |
|---|
 | "Feel what?" Todd asked. "Uh, guys," Moldy said, and we watched the world spin once, twice, three times around outside the car before we slammed into the snow-buffered guardrail. We came to a stop, one wheel over the guardrail, facing the wrong way in the high speed lane of traffic. |
| Always very serious |
|---|
| A desperate reverse-off-the-guardrail and U-turn later (across four lanes of traffic), and we were safe up against the opposite side of the freeway. Moments later a pickup truck came spinning around the curve, having hit the same patch of black ice on the freeway, and slammed into the guardrail where we had been. Twenty years later, he let me drive him and his wife and friends up to Elk River to see a movie.After those two accidents, that's showing a special kind of trust! |  |
| Punk Karaoke Champion! |
|---|
 | My friend Steve passed away today at 2:00 p.m. His death was easy and peaceful for him. His wife Tanya, who has been a magnficent pillar of strength for all these years, was holding his hand and stroking his head as she helped him to pass over. My friend Tim and I stopped by the apartment, where many of Steve's family and friends were gathered, to pay our last respects. It was a very moving time. No word on services yet. |
Steve Moldenhauer with his wife Tanya. Goodbye my friend. |
|---|
(It's been quite the week for dreams. I just woke up from this one and
ran down to type it up. It's oddly coherent for a dream. I also had
other dreams last night: one about putting my foot on a kind of brick
and sliding frictionlessly around the lobby of a grand hotel, and
another involving carrying something and almost getting killed by a
forklift dropping a load on me. But this dream was clear in my mind
when I awoke just now.)
I dreamt of a post-apocalypitc future, a barren dusty Earth populated
by ragged "Mad Max" wannabees without enough style to make the casting
cut.
I was some lumpish young fellow in dusty tan rags, living in a
community of men who were all put to work by some unseen warlord. Our
job was to dig in the mines, mere holes dug in the dirt.
My best friend was Mark, a tall, good looking blond fellow, but his
best friend wasn't me it was Steve and Steve was dead. He had just
died because he'd Gone Down.
Going Down wasn't a euphemism for sex, it referred to someone who digs
or climbs down too deeply, and touches one of the black Tiles that
covered the Earth. Instant death follows.
Everyone there knew that the entire Earth was covered with these
tiles, a mosaic of glossy black, white, and matte black rectangles
that interlocked and covered the entire surface of the world. Various
theories existed as to why this was, but everyone knew that if you
touched a matte black Tile, you died.
And everyone knew that these were why most of the people in the world
were dead. Religion and custom ruled regarding the Tiles, enforced by
the warlord's vicious priests, and speculation or disobedience were
not tolerated. The mines were a hole dug carefully out of the tiles at
the cost of many lives, from beneath which we extracted riches of the
ancient world. The mines were why we were here and why the warlord was
rich. Our camp was atop the fill extracted from the mine, giving us a
broad area where it was safe to walk carelessly without having to
watch for Tiles.
So when the dream began, Steve had just died and Mark was grieving in
a very silent, solitary way. Our shifts in the mine were over, and he
was kicking a thing like a black and white plastic brick around the
camp. It was a scrap of something unearthed in the mines and judged
worthless enough to let the miners keep, and Mark was kicking it about
the camp as he dealt with the death of our friend.
I was watching from the corner of some wall or building as he kicked
the brick randomly, but ever closer to the cliff that marked the edge
of the camp and the begining of the Tiles. I watched anxiously, hoping
he wouldn't do anything stupid, and sure enough he kicked the brick
off the cliff and it fell down towards the Tiles. I was about to call
out after him but he jumped off the edge too.
From my vantage atop the wall I could see where he landed, in a fan of
spilled soil just on the edge of the Tiles. His brick was there, too,
resting on a Tile. He squatted trying to reach for it, but the brick
was on a glossy Tile just beside a matte Tile. Instead of picking it
up, he carefully nudged it onto the matte black surface, and I was
prepared to be terrified.
Nothing happened. After a moment he straightened in surprise, then
reached out with his shoe and I was afraid he was going to STEP on the
black Tile. Instead he kicked the brick again, as he had been doing in
the camp. It skittered away onto the Tiles, and I thought, "Well,
that's done with that."
Then he jumped after the brick, landing balanced on one foot on one of
the glossy black Tiles. My heart leapt into my throat. He was playing
the Dangerous Game, one that children sometimes goaded each other
into. One that usually resulted in death.
It was possible to move across the Tiles if one stepped only upon the
glossy black and white ones, without touching the matte black
scattered randomly about. Daring lads might accept a challenge to take
one, two, or three steps on the Tiles. Four was unheard of. Five was
legendary. Six was insane.
Mark leapt again and kicked the brick skittering away. He leapt again.
The sun was setting, reflecting glare off the smooth Tiles, and his
form became hard to follow as he chased the brick into the glare. He
leapt again, and yet again. He was now farther out into the Tiles than
anyone who did not follow the careful parallel ruts of known safe
paths ever went. He leapt again.
_________________________________________________________________
It was the weekend, the day when we didn't have to dig. I had left the
camp and returned to the village where I had been raised before my
parents died. I kept my parents' home in repair, although I lived six
days a week at the camp. Today I was using a spade to prevent the
encroachment of more Tiles.
Everybody had this chore. The Tiles were like weeds, and would cover
the ground in an area if left unchecked. If you got them early they
were safe, but tedious to thwart: you dug a spade in the ground under
them, and turned up the soil to break them off, then you dumped them
in a bin at the edge of the street and they were carried off for
burning. If you needed the soil back you could take a wheelbarrow to
the incinerator and retrieve some that had been burned clean.
There was a secret about these new, as-yet unhardened Tiles that
nobody spoke of. They were edible.
It was forbidden to eat them of course, and for good reason. When they
were unfinished, you couldn't tell which ones were matte black. And if
you ate one of those you died, and everyone knew a childhood friend
who had died in just that way. Because although the priests forebade
the practice with strict punishment, every child was hungry, and every
child eventually tried eating a Tile that tempted its way into the
edge of the dusty yard.
I had cleared the Tiles from around my parents' empty home yet again
and was looking at my bin of dirty, dusty Tiles. Each one, black and
white, looked like a cellophane-wrapped candy: some chocolate, some
like dried fruit, others creamy. I was dreadfully hungry as were all
people everywhere, and I thought once again to try one of the unripe
tiles. I picked one up -- they were safe to touch when they weren't
ripe, even the matte ones -- and peered at it closely. It looked like
it would be a white Tile, and that it contained three dried apricots.
I sniffed it and detected only the faintest fruity scent.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." a voice startled me, causing me to
drop the Tile back in the bin.
"I was just..." I began making my excuses before I even turned.
It was Mark. He had been missing and assumed dead for days, and here
he was, dusty and haggard, in my parents' front yard. With a start I
realized that he must have been hiding in my parents abandoned house:
escaping camp was punishable with whipping, but hale miners were too
valuable to kill. If caught now he could be tortured and restored to
health repeatedly until the priests decided he'd suffered enough to
make up for his crime: in between times he'd still have to dig.
I was excited to see him, but we exchanged few words. I realized that
he had only risked coming out of the house because he was afraid I was
going to eat one of the Tiles and die. He went back inside, and I saw
him drop his plastic brick and kick it into the living room before the
door closed. As I put away my shovel and headed back to camp, I could
hear faintly the sound of the brick clattering inside the house.
_________________________________________________________________
At the end of shift the next day, my friend Mouse came running up to
me with the look of one bearing important news. I was leaning on my
shovel next to the latest trench, within which the second shift was
starting to dig. As Mouse approached I prevented him from telling me
what I suspected he would say by speaking first.
"I have a theory what they are," I said as he panted up. These were
dangerous words, because speculating about the Tiles was forbidden by
the priests. Next to me in the trench the attitude of one of the
miners changed. He tensed, but kept digging, and I could tell he was
listening closely, eager to earn favor by reporting heretical thoughts
to the priests.
"I think," I paused dramatically, "I think they are nanomachines from
a candy factory."
Mouse said nothing, his eyes wide with fright. If he were involved, he
could suffer too.
"I don't think God handed down punishment," I said. There, that
guaranteed trouble if word got back to the priests. In the trench the
miner was scarcely scraping at the soil, probably dizzy with the
wealth of heresy he was gleaning.
"I think that the Ancients had a candy factory run by nanomachines.
They were supposed to take raw elements and construct them into edible
foods, including fruit, chocolate, and other things. And I think one
day something went wrong: the nanomachines ate their way out of the
factory, and got loose. They reproduced wildly, converting everything
first into candy and food packets, but then hardening into Tiles as
they consumed each others' products, then each other. Soon the entire
Earth was covered in Tiles as they raged across the land, converting
everything.
"And now they wait there, having painted themselves into a corner, as
matte black Tiles. They've eaten everything they can eat, they're
surrounded by their own waste, and so they just sit and wait. Till
something they can eat steps on them. And that's why they kill you.
"But they don't eat everything. They didn't eat Mark's black and white
brick. They don't eat black and white Tiles. And I bet we could get
rid of them entirely now if we were careful. But the priests don't let
us. The priests like things they way they are."
I looked at Mouse after delivering this suicidal monologue. Behind me
the miner was pelting away towards the warlord's house with his burden
of news. "What did you have to say?" I asked him.
"Oh!" he jumped, and blurted, "Mark's dead."
He had been found underneath my parents house by the neighbors, who
had followed the smell. In the darkness it was hard to see, but he
seemed to be reaching for something, which I guessed was his plastic
brick, kicked beneath the house by accident. Apparently my tending was
not good enough, because some Tiles had formed in the crawlspace
underneath the house and groping in the darkness that should have been
safe, he had touched a matte black one. His body was half eaten away
when they found him, and the Tiles had gotten into the floor of the
living room and were at work on the house.
(Only hours later, reviewing this in my head, did I realize how much
of this dream came from seeing the movie "Holes" a couple weeks ago.)
[1]Last
Sort of like Three Bean Salad, but with dreams
Saturday night was notable for the incredibly vivid dreams I had. If I
could figure these dreams out, I'm sure I would understand a whole lot
about myself that I don't now!
Dream 1 of 3: Pirates
I was stuck with a group of scientists in an elaborate mansion on a
wave-splashed island. A rubber raft pulls up and my friend Keith goes
out with two orange-jumpsuited crewmen to unload it. Then pirates
arrive, and the two crewmen are washed away in the rubber raft, along
with Keith's boombox. The pirates invade the mansion, and we hide out
at the east end of the structure. There we find an enormous circular
staircase (like the [1]Guggenheim in New York), beyond which is a
library accessable only by a single hallway, so we decide to hole up
there and await the pirates.
Dream 2 of 3: Working
I'm working, conducting a SCADA audit in a data center. Superimposed
over the work I'm doing is a video game: I can secretly look at a
computer or a rack, think "zap!", and the video game target explodes
into pieces, while the real computer remains unharmed. With this I
amuse myself as I inspect the equipment. A competitive vendor
approaches me and we talk shop and prices for a while. Then a tall,
attractive blond scientist (think: labcoat, hair in bun, glasses, va-
va-voom figure) starts flirting with me, but wants to talk football
which if you're going to flirt with me is a waste of time. I grow
irritated with her.
Dream 2 of 3: Batman
I'm Robin. As in, "The Boy Wonder"? Why? I have no idea. I'm working
with Batman to solve a crime involving someone trying to blow up a
small municipal bridge over a creek.
We're staked out on a tree-lined suburban residential street, at one
end of the bridge. Batman and I are squatting in footwells the back
seat of a sedan, trying not to be noticed. Hard to do when you're in
full costume AND you've left one of the sedan doors open so you can
see. Local residents walking and jogging by keep peering in at us
curiously, and even I, the loyal Boy Wonder, wonder if this is the
best idea. To top it off, Batman has a periscope kind of thing
inserted into the dinosaur puppet, which he occasionally raises so he
can look out above the doors. Nothin' happening here folks! Just two
costumed superheroes and a swivelling tyrannosaurus rex puppet in the
back seat of a car! Move along!
Suddenly the people outside the car are distracted by something we
can't see. We hear cries and someone calls out that there's a car
rolling loose up the street. We wonder what to do until we realize OUR
car is the loose car, and it's rolling backwards UP the street!
The sedan rolls backwards uphill into a busy picnic grounds, and comes
to rest by a big human-scale chessboard. Oh no! It's that nefarious
villian, The Chessman! We can see his henchmen (toques, black and
white striped shirts, domino masks) are dressed as chess pieces and
are positioned on the board in the midst of a game.
I make up my mind: I'm going to get the phrase "Chess sucks!" into the
conversation BEFORE the Chessman can use the cliche'd "Your move,
Batman." I just am. We get out of the car, and the smell of delicious
coffee is in the air. The Chessman is a burly, western kind of guy,
with a blue denim shirt and a mane of blond hair, very affable and
friendly for a villain. He offers us coffee, but as I go to get a cup
I step on something: it's my own Bruegger's refillable coffee cup, and
I've crushed it underfoot. I hear laughter, and a wizened old black
lady says, "You done it now, honey child."
-And then I woke up-
P.S. No, I haven't seen "Pirates of the Caribean," visited the
Guggenheim, or watched "Batman" recently.
[2]Last
11:16
At Moldy's for my first overnight. In some ways I feel a litle
ashamed: by the time I have gotten around to taking an overnight,
Moldy is so far gone that there really isn't much to the job anymore.
Now he's possibly not as bad as he appears: this morning his new nurse
visiting for hospice care gave him 10 mg of morphine instead of five,
so he's been zonked out all day.
At 10 we gave him his meds
6 ml (6 full droppers) desamethasone
2 mg loranzapam liquid from fridge
2 tsp liquid naprosin
And he really didn't quite wake up for them. He cracked a couple of
watery glances, but I'm not sure he even sees anymore.
Took the hassock for a walk, yadda yadda, not too much I care to
report there, but no disasters. It was getting dark and I realized
that if it wasn't for Moldy's mutt, I'd probably never have taken an
evening walk this year. Now cool muggy evenings will probably forever
be associated with walking this dog while my friend lay dying by
inches.
Blondie was out when I got there, but returned right at 10 (meds
time). I urged her to goto bed, but she had other plans. At 10:30 Dave
showed u to take her to First Avenue. That's cool by me: I'm eager to
help out as long as my being here lets her do something she couldn't
otherwise do (like sleep). I just hope she doesn't come back and then
stay up all night. That would miss the whole point.
So now Moldy's sister is catching a couple hours on the couch, I'm
writing this, and hopefully next I'll get to some writing. More later
maybe.
2:30
Blondie is back. Moldy has been resting quietly, with just a couple of
coughs now and then, but she is alert for any signs of trouble. Soon
she fixes on two things: parts of his body are slightly hot, while
others are somewhat cool, and his feet are starting to get swollen.
When I arrived his hands were on a pillow to reduce their swelling,
and now the edema has gone to his feet.
A long, whispered conference with Moldy's sister ensues, to which I am
not privy, culminating in a phone call to the ask-a-nurse line. The
call is still underway.
But while we were rolling Moldy over to his other side (in order to
reduce the danger of pneumonia) he roused somewhat. His eyes opened.
And having gotten him tucked in, his sister tearfully leaned over to
kiss his forehead. As she did so her hair fell across his eyes.
He didn't blink. When no one was looking, I waved a hand in front of
his face. He's blind.
5:00 a.m.
Well, she's finally in bed. Blondie stayed out till 2:30, then said
she needed to relax. Of course she was staying up till his 4:30
medications, because she knew I was clueless. Well, I could have
probably managed the meds, but I'm glad she stayed because his
catheter needed replacing and frankly I wasn't up to that task.
He's not responding to much. Touch brings about a reaction, and
sticking a bottle in his mouth gets him to suck and swallow
(apparently not always). But that's it. I'm not sure if he can hear.
And it's frustrating. I guess it's just how I'm dealing with it, but
it's hard for me to watch Blondie working so hard to perfect his care.
Every contingency is planned for. Everything is precisely right.
And why? He's not there anymore.
Of course, he was gone before, thirteen weeks ago, and he came back.
But that was different. He was still able-bodied, he walked, and
talked after that. It's not going to be like that this time.
But this is her experience, not mine. I'm just there to support. I
can't help her work through this or change how she's going to do it. I
tried getting her to go to sleep earlier and she bit my head off. She
will do what she will do.
I can only hope for her sake and for his that this doesn't go on too
much longer.
6:15 a.m.
Well, at least his sister got a good night's sleep. Don't now how long
Blondie will sleep, but again, nothing I can do about that. The
hospice nurse is due by at about 10, so that will probably be it.
Of course, as if to put a lie to all my maundering about whether he is
"there" or not, Moldy responded to me after my prior entry. Blondie
had put together a bottle of chai just before hitting the sack. When
she said "I'm going to make some chai before I go to bed, I thought
she meant for herself, and I complained and told her to just go to
bed, picturing twenty minutes spent boiling highly caffeinated tea. Of
course, she meant for her husband. And of course it was just
pre-prepared bottled stuff. Teach me to keep my mouth shut!
Anyway when she gave it to me she said "He really likes it." And when
I pressed the bottle to his lips he certainly started sucking it down.
His sister was awake then, too, and was watching me administer the
meal. At one point I said "Pretty good stuff, eh?" and to both our
astonishment he paused mid drink and replied with a clear "Mmm-hmm."
So there is someone in there. He CAN hear. And he enjoys chai.
I'll keep my morbid speculations to myself from now on. I hope.
[1]Last
It is not my intention to post these weekly, it merely happens that
way.
I sat with Moldy again last Tuesday night -- it took me two days to
recover from being up til 3:00 a.m. This doesn't bode well for
tonight's overnight stay.
Last week Blondie showed me how to change Moldy's Depends (adult
diapers). You have to sort of shove your hands deep into the mattress,
then slip them underneath without touching him, and then lift him as
gently as possible to roll him to one side and then another, because
his skin hurts so much from the cancer.
He seemed "out of it" for most of the time, either sleeping or sort of
staring blankly through watery eyes. He didn't wake up the first time
we changed him, and he didn't react the second time. That says a lot
-- he used to be angry and humiliated when other people helped him
with private stuff, now he just lays there.
But then later he was quite responsive to some things. I pointed at
his tattoo (which seems to be of one of the bugs from an old "Raid"
insect-repellent commercial), and he perked right up and said "Yeah,
it's cool!" And when his wife came in and made kissy-faces at him he
responded and told her he loved her.
Tim and I gave Blondie's computer yet another makeover. She is
completely computer-unsavvy but very intelligent and she spends all
her time at home on the computer. As a result she was chock full of
spyware. There's a great free tool you can run,
[1]http://security.kolla.de/
which will erase the spyware from your computer. Basic running process
is 1) Download and install, 2) Update the Spyware Files, 3) Search and
destroy spyware, 4) run Innoculate to prevent reinfection.
So we did that, and we re-connected her speakers which had somehow
come undone.
I also walked their dog, which for me is a major sacrifice. My family
hasn't got a dog because, at least in Minneapolis, you have to pick up
the dog's poop and dispose of it. Well, I have this personal rule,
which rule is, "I will not walk around in public carrying dog poop in
a plastic Wonderbread bag." See, I'm aware that in some countries
carrying poop in public can be considered a sign of lunacy, and I just
won't do it. The dog will wait till my kids are in college and I move
to the country, where his poop can fertilize the fields and forests.
But for Moldy's sake I took the miserable mutt and a bag and off we
went. About half a block from the house she did the inevitable, and I
did the necessary, and there was a trash dumpster nearby and that
wasn't all that bad.
A block later she demonstrated what I later learned were the effects
of not having been walked FOR A WEEK. This dog looks a lot like a
shabby hassock, I believe it suddenly weighed half of what it had when
we left the apartment.
Of course, the property owner was right there.
Well, I had brought with me a couple of paper-towel-sized hand-wipes
in case anything untoward happened and I needed to clean up. I was
still carrying the slightly damp things, wondering what to do with
them now that, as I'd believed, the dog was done.
My father used to tell the story that he was watching a TV movie once
in the early Sixties when the first reel of the movie was followed
immediately by the third. Half an our later the second reel commenced.
At the end of that reel the test pattern appeared, and a voice said
"Uh, well, we seem to have lost the last reel of the movie folks...
but don't worry, everything turned out all right in the end!"
I will spare you the nightmarish experience that followed, and only
say that everything turned out all right in the end.
Tim and I also tried to get Blondie to go to bed. Unlike most of my
attempts to get women into bed, this one failed, doubtless because I
wasn't going to be there with her. (*Rimshot* "Thank you ladies and
gentlemen, thank you... I'll be here all week... try the veal, it's
fabulous!") What a stubborn German girl she is! We got her to lie down
once, but she emerged only about 20 minutes later to say she couldn't
sleep.
Tonight I'll be doing my first overnight, teaming up with Moldy's
sister. Hopefully we'll be able to get Blondie to take a nap, I think
the woman is running on about 2 hours a night.
I am a little anxious about seeing Moldy tonight. According to Blondie
he had a tough weekend, with a fever and with what sounds like
declining ability to communicate. I don't think there'll be anything
shocking or terrible to see, I just hate watching him waste away like
this...
Still hating cancer...
[2]Last
The rocket-sled ride continues. I'm here at Moldy's place, having just
succeeded in finally getting his wife to go grab some sleep. Man! You
can't make a German girl do anything she doesn't want to do, let me
tell ya. Finally she dozed off on the couch and when she awoke was
convinced to grab some shuteye.
The week itself continues ridiculously busy, but not bad. Business is
actually remaining steady, even slightly picking up. A couple of
opportunities have come up which, if they come through, will continue
the growth of my company in a modest fashion. That would be wonderful,
since summers are usually slump times for consulting, so I'd be very
happy.
Fourth of July was fun. Went over the Professor's for his annual
Independence Day picnic. It was actually one of the nicest in years.
The weather was absolutely perfect, warm and sunny without humidity or
bugs. Everybody showed up, including Fitz, Zotpub, Wictor and even
Harchar up from Florida. Fantastic!
And the kids had fun: we played croquet, which fortunately kept me
busy while other unfortunates helped the Professor move heavy
furnishings. The kids also had some others to play with, which was
unusual.
Afterwards we went to see fireworks with Debby up at County Road C. We
were skeptical, but they were much better than two years ago.
Prior to the show a number of bands played in the park bandstand, and
as the evening drew to a close they asked everyone to rise for the
Minnesota State Song. Several did. Then they asked everyone to rise
for the National Anthem. Around me many people rose, but several did
not. I began to wonder if they were just unaware, or were deliberately
ignoring the song. The others, I supposed, were patriotic souls who
felt the song deserved respect. Young and old, they rose to their feet
to show their respect for the nation.
About 1/4 of the way through the song, the fireworks started.
The entire crowd wheeled around. And lo! The fireworks were low! They
were going off over the lake, blocked for the most part by a mighty
oak. Yet good viewing areas were open on either side.
The crowd moved, dare I say en masse, and ignoring the anthem jostled
for position on either side of the tree. The anthem petered out as the
second volley of starbursts exploded overhead...
Saturday I had a party at my house, and invited many old high school
alum. Unfortunately, few could attend. But those who did had a good
time. We caught up for a couple hours with Greg and Bonnie, who were
visiting from Colorado. After 23 years of separate careers, the two of
them ened up in Colorado working in adjacent offices.
Then we went to visit Steve. I could tell the trip was intimidating
for them, and reasonably so. Steve has continued his decline, and did
not seem fully aware of who was visiting.
Then it was back to my place for barbeque and more conversation. It
was the first time in 25 years that I'd seen Bonnie, the second that
I'd seen Greg.
Sunday was a workday for me, with a number of reports to complete and
a new toy to play with... which I'll hopefully have time to describe
in a journal entry Real Soon Now.
Sorry if this seems addled and distracted -- I'm tired and I'm still
here at Moldy's place, so the brain isn't entirely functional. Two
more hours and the hospice volunteer shows up, then I can head home.
Cancer. Hate it. Etc.
And a meeting at 9:30 a.m...
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Hey.
Still here. Still going crazy. Life is like a rocket-rollercoaster
these last few days, so no updates for a bit. Which is too bad because
it is under just such circumstances that the most interesting stuff
occurs.
Hopefully I'll have a chance to upload pictures from the Harry Potter
party at the Mall of America. I managed to get book #12 not by dint of
any particular fannish behavior (e.g. standing in line for a week) but
by simply standing in the wrong place at the right time.
And the new apartment-and-shops development near my home burned up
about, in fact exactly, a week ago. Got a few after-the-fact photos,
although I missed out on a spectacular set of fire photographs by dint
of being sound asleep when the 2 a.m. conflagration commensed. Very
distressing, the neighborhood was really looking forward to this new
set of shops. Hopefully it will be rebuilt quickly. I don't know if
they even know if the foundation is usable.
And of course another trip to Lovely Downtown El Paso last week. It's
getting to be hot there. Of course "this is nothing" as the locals
told me. And who was I to spoil their fun, we do the same thing up
here. Of course, up in Minnesota when it's 102, we also have 85%
humidity, mosquitoes, and tornadoes, but I smiled and made the
appropriate impressed noises and just hoped not to spot any
shoebox-sized scorpions during my visit. I'll take mosquitoes over
scorpions any day.
Now I'm off, trying to resume my gym attendance, although I'll
probably have to give in and rent another locker. My last one they
clipped the lock on it during a two week period when I was too sick to
work out. I vowed never to rent a locker there again, but it was a lie
-- my workout habits collapsed and now I have to go crawling back to
rent again. I guess it's either that or give up and start gaining
weight.
Tonight I go sit with Moldy, who is doing about as well as a fellow
with an advanced case of cancer can be expected to be doing. I've got
to schedule an overnight one of these evenings to give his spouse a
break and a night's sleep. I feel like a cad for not helping out more,
but I try to tell myself that I'm doing the best I can.
If I weren't sitting with Moldy I'd be attending writing group in my
own house, but of course that would be a waste of time since I haven't
written diddily ever since I got back from my May writing sabbatical.
Anyway I hear the rocket-powered rollercoaster revving up, so I'd
better put on my crash helmet and strap myself in...
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