Archives for July 2005

– Just fine, thanks. We don’t yet know when she’ll be coming home from the hospital, but everything else is going swimmingly. She ate a hearty dinner–as hearty as institutional cuisine gets, anyway–and walked fifty feet on the arm of a nurse. Tomorrow she starts physical rehabilitation.

– I’m on dialup for the duration, which makes it difficult for me to read my blogmail. Please don’t be surprised (or offended) if you don’t hear back from me until early August.

– I wore one of my Hip Black New York Outfits to the hospital this morning (all my other clothes were dirty). When I left to get some lunch, a nurse asked my mother, “How does it feel to have a priest in the family?”

– Here are the headlines on the front page of last night’s local paper: (1) “Rain Brought Much Relief for Farmers.” (2) “Life-Saver Award Goes to Officer.” (3) “Smalltown Resident Gets the Price Right” (i.e., she was picked as a contestant on The Price Is Right). (4) “Sometimes You Spell Allergy Relief, S-H-O-T.”

That’s how I know I’m back in Smalltown, U.S.A. And glad to be.

– Further proof that there’s no place like home: I can walk in total darkness from one end of my mother’s house to the other without bumping into anything. (I can’t even do that in my own apartment!)

– I brought a big stack of books with me to Smalltown, and so far I’ve been chewing them up at a rate of approximately one and a third per day. Here’s what’s on my nightstand:

The Worlds of Herman Kahn: The Intuitive Science of Thermonuclear War, by Sharon Ghamari-Tabrizi (yes, I read Louis Menand’s New Yorker review).

Satchmo Blows Up the World: Jazz Ambassadors Play the Cold War, by Penny M. Von Eschen, and Bix: The Definitive Biography of a Jazz Legend, by Jean Pierre Lion (I’m yoking them together for a Commentary essay).

J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys: The Real Story Behind Peter Pan, by Andrew Birkin (I’d been meaning for years to read this book, and when a friend asked me the other day whether there was any truth to Finding Neverland, I decided it was time to put up or shut up).

Elia Kazan: A Biography, by Richard Schickel (now in bound galleys, out in November).

A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, by Czeslaw Milosz (no special reason, except maybe that Ms. Searchblog admires him so extravagantly).

At Day’s Close: Night in Times Past, by A. Roger Ekirch (sent to me by a former prot

– Just fine, thanks. We don’t yet know when she’ll be coming home from the hospital, but everything else is going swimmingly. She ate a hearty dinner–as hearty as institutional cuisine gets, anyway–and walked fifty feet on the arm of a nurse. Tomorrow she starts physical rehabilitation.

– I’m on dialup for the duration, which makes it difficult for me to read my blogmail. Please don’t be surprised (or offended) if you don’t hear back from me until early August.

– I wore one of my Hip Black New York Outfits to the hospital this morning (all my other clothes were dirty). When I left to get some lunch, a nurse asked my mother, “How does it feel to have a priest in the family?”

– Here are the headlines on the front page of last night’s local paper: (1) “Rain Brought Much Relief for Farmers.” (2) “Life-Saver Award Goes to Officer.” (3) “Smalltown Resident Gets the Price Right” (i.e., she was picked as a contestant on The Price Is Right). (4) “Sometimes You Spell Allergy Relief, S-H-O-T.”

That’s how I know I’m back in Smalltown, U.S.A. And glad to be.

– Further proof that there’s no place like home: I can walk in total darkness from one end of my mother’s house to the other without bumping into anything. (I can’t even do that in my own apartment!)

– I brought a big stack of books with me to Smalltown, and so far I’ve been chewing them up at a rate of approximately one and a third per day. Here’s what’s on my nightstand:

The Worlds of Herman Kahn: The Intuitive Science of Thermonuclear War, by Sharon Ghamari-Tabrizi (yes, I read Louis Menand’s New Yorker review).

Satchmo Blows Up the World: Jazz Ambassadors Play the Cold War, by Penny M. Von Eschen, and Bix: The Definitive Biography of a Jazz Legend, by Jean Pierre Lion (I’m yoking them together for a Commentary essay).

J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys: The Real Story Behind Peter Pan, by Andrew Birkin (I’d been meaning for years to read this book, and when a friend asked me the other day whether there was any truth to Finding Neverland, I decided it was time to put up or shut up).

Elia Kazan: A Biography, by Richard Schickel (now in bound galleys, out in November).

A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, by Czeslaw Milosz (no special reason, except maybe that Ms. Searchblog admires him so extravagantly).

At Day’s Close: Night in Times Past, by A. Roger Ekirch (sent to me by a former prot

“Strangers always love us for what we’ve accomplished, ignoring the fact that, by definition, that very accomplishment no longer touches us.”

Ned Rorem, letter to Glenway Wescott (August 31, 1967)

“Strangers always love us for what we’ve accomplished, ignoring the fact that, by definition, that very accomplishment no longer touches us.”

Ned Rorem, letter to Glenway Wescott (August 31, 1967)

Yesterday morning I arose before dawn, took my mother to the hospital where I was born forty-nine years ago, and watched her vanish down a corridor, wondering if I’d see her alive again. Seven hours later I was feeding her ice chips from a plastic spoon and doing my best not to get choked up as I told her she didn’t look too bad, considering.

In fact, she came through her operation somewhat bloodied (she lost a cupful) but mostly unbowed, and when it was over the surgeon informed us–convincingly–that the prospects for her recovery were excellent. I passed the word to her a couple of hours later in her hospital room, and she smiled wanly. Then I pulled out my cell phone and started calling all the people on the list she’d handed me the night before.

I don’t know what you do on the eve of major spinal surgery, but my brother, a man of action, decided the situation called for a cookout and proceeded to barbecue a mountain of pork chops, chicken breasts, and jalape

Beloved, we are always in the wrong,

Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,

Suffering too little or too long,

Too careful even in our selfish loves;

The decorative manias we obey

Die in grimaces round us every day,

Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice

Which utters an absurd command–Rejoice.

W.H. Auden, “In Sickness and in Health”

Beloved, we are always in the wrong,

Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,

Suffering too little or too long,

Too careful even in our selfish loves;

The decorative manias we obey

Die in grimaces round us every day,

Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice

Which utters an absurd command–Rejoice.

W.H. Auden, “In Sickness and in Health”

A friend who should know writes:

One of life’s greatest joys is that relief rush that follows a loved one’s successful surgery, not to mention the reunion afterwards with whoever had to brave the table. The world briefly seems to be about the simple basics and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

What she said.

Now I’m off to the hospital to amuse my mother. Work can wait. Likewise the world. See you tonight.