Lunch with Julie

I had lunch with my friend Julie the other day. If you happened to be in the restaurant, you might have noticed us, two forty-something women, both wearing glasses, jeans, a little make-up, sharing a pizza and just talking.

But our lunch together was more than might have met your eye. The waitress might have noticed the tears in my eyes at one point, as I told Julie why she means so much to me.

I first met Julie back in 1994, when our sons were attending preschool together. I had chosen that particular preschool because it offered a supplemental program for kids with special needs. My son, at the age of three, had been diagnosed with autism that year, and we were advised to enroll him in a program that catered to so-called "typical" children, because these children, by virtue of being "typical", would model behavior we wanted our son to learn. I had only just learned that "typical" was a euphemism for "normal." The school also provided speech and occupational therapy for kids that needed it.

Making friends did not come easily to my son. After all, what three-year old wants to play with a child who doesn't smile, who rarely speaks, who seems not to know how to play? But Julie's son liked ours, and so began a friendship that gave us hope.

Kids in suburbia can be cruel. Their parents too. I could feel the cold response, or lack of one, when we tried to arrange play dates. Was it because our son rode the special bus to preschool? Because he didn't make eye contact with them? Was I oversensitive and too quick to cast blame where there was none? Maybe.

But Julie and her son always invited mine over to play. Or they accepted our invitations. Julie was wearing a wig then, one with brown hair and bangs. I guessed she had cancer, but she never mentioned it so neither did I. One night during that time I was at a party when Julie's name came up. "It's so sad," someone said, "she has a brain tumor and she's only 27."

So that was it. Not long after that, Julie and I had lunch, and she explained why she had a full-time babysitter who did all the driving, even though she herself was not working. "Sometimes I get seizures," she said, "so it isn't really safe."

The years went on, and Julie got better. Our sons were good friends for years, but by high school, they weren't hanging out together anymore. They remained friendly, but were simply involved in different things. My son thrived as the years passed, and our fears for his future were greatly relieved.

I ran into Julie occasionally, usually at school events or the grocery store, and we'd always chat for a few minutes to catch up. At lunch one time she was happy to be celebrating twelve years without cancer. Her brown hair was thick and curly, and I thought she looked quite beautiful. She told me to bring food to my sister-in-law, who was then going through chemo for breast cancer.

Two years ago, I heard from a neighbor that Julie was back in chemo. There were two brain tumors this time, inoperable. Around the same time, both our sons were starting with the school crew team. I called Julie, a little fearful over how she'd sound, but, I thought, if I was sick, I'd hate it if people avoided me out of simple fear. She immediately put me at ease, and explained what was happening. I told her I was driving my son to crew practice every day, and offered to drive hers too. Her voice cracked as she thanked me, and she actually apologized for needing help.

"Don't thank me, " I said. "You have one job to do, and that is to get well. Do that." She said she'd try, and I knew she would.

We had more lunches. She looked pale and fragile. Her hair had fallen out in patches, and she was wearing a ballcap. She never complained, not once. Then, a year ago, an MRI showed the tumors had stopped growing, and she could stop chemo. I started seeing her at school events again, and when we had lunch at Christmas, her hair had grown in and she had regained that glow in her face. She drove herself to meet me.

Life goes on, and as the months progressed, I kept thinking to myself, I need to call Julie. I had not yet gotten around to it when a neighbor told me, "Julie's sick again. We're organizing dinners for her family." I said to put me on the list, and I went home and called her.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Not so good," she said, and gave me a brief update that amounted to the cancer was back, and she had to return to chemo, this time every other week. I didn't ask how a person was supposed to survive that kind of assault with such frequency. We decided to have lunch. I'd drive, since she no longer could. "I'm just too spacey," she said.

That is how we came to be sharing a pizza the other day. As lunch progressed, i began to glimpse the seriousness of the situation. One minute we'd be talking easily; the next, she had trouble recalling her son's name. Whenever there was a blank spot in her recall, she apologized.

That's when I realized I had to tell her why she's special to me. I drove her places and had lunch with her. Those are small things. She gave me hope, and my son friendship, at a time when I felt dispair. The beautiful part about Julie is that she really had no idea she was doing anything special. Julie was just being Julie. Her son liked mine, so she liked him too.

I'm in prayer mode now. Even though I confess I don't know if there is a God, and I don't know if the Virgin Mary is just a myth, I'm still praying to them. My son is fine now. I pray that Julie will be too.

Wicked the Musical...Entertainment vs. Lecture

So Hubby got us tickets to see the musical Wicked. I was excited! We don't get out as much as we would like to, and this is one of those shows everyone is talking about. Great music, they exclaim! Great costumes! And the story! So clever!

The show purportedly tells the real story behind the Wicked Witch of the West, and her polar opposite, Glinda. These ladies, evidently, are not as they appear.

The theatre, the gorgeous Benedum in downtown Pittsburgh, was packed. Judging from the crowd, the show clearly attracted a certain demographic. Female, large, middle age. A fair number of children, though is was Saturday evening. An intellectual crowd it did not appear to be. (They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but in my experience, 9 times out of 10 the cover is the whole story.)

Hubby & I watched the show, and we were fairly entertained. The performers were talented. But something about the story was bothering me. It was getting preachy. Here's the basic plot: The Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba, is born green. Everybody shuns her because she's different. Glinda, the Good Witch, is blonde, shallow and Miss Popular. They both meet the Wizard of Oz. Elphaba won't go along with Oz's plan to silence the animals, so Oz (and cohorts, including Glinda) casts her as "wicked", even though she's really good.

But as the story developed, one thing became very clear to me. This was not the "real" story behind the Wizard of Oz. This story was actually an allegory for U.S. foreign policy, and the message was the U.S. has an evil government and we're unfairly imprisoning all the poor terrorists, who aren't really terrorists at all. Or if they are, it's because we made them that way.

At intermission, I said to Hubby, "The subtext isn't too subtle, is it?" He didn't know what I was talking about.

"Have you been brainwashed by your family?" he asked. It is true that my family's political philosophy definitely tends right, though I consider myself more of a libertarian. "Or have we lived in our neighborhood too long?" he continued. Our neighborhood is full of right-wingers, people who make me look like Lenin.

I pondered this, and wondered if it was true. Was I reading into the story things that were simply not there? I watched the second act, and my husband didn't seem to read anything into the crack on "regime change" when Glinda tries to justify Oz's actions.

I don't want to be one of those old opinionated people who can't take simple pleasure from a Broadway musical without reading all kinds of nefarious messages into it.

"How do you know the show wasn't written before we went into Iraq?" Hubby asked as we drove the 16 miles home from the theatre.

"I guarantee it wasn't," I replied, though I really did not have the slightest idea of when it was written.

"What if it was," he asked, baiting me.

"Then I will stand corrected," I said.

This morning I googled "Wicked Musical Subtext." One of the first reviews I found, on the Bnet Business Network, said the following:

In a pretty explicit reference to the U.S.'s current penning-up of Arab suspected terrorists at Guantanamo Bay, the animals of Oz are being caged and deprived of the power of speech. When Elphaba's powers bring her to the attention of the Wizard, she's thrilled, thinking they can join forces to fight these threats to freedom. But she discovers he's a fraud who controls his subjects through fatuous happy talk. That makes her dangerous--and the campaign to brand her as wicked spreads faster than you can say Karl Rove.

So I feel vindicated. And frustrated, because I strongly suspect a disturbingly large percentage of Wicked's cult-like following doesn't have the slightest clue that this story has nothing to do with the Wizard of Oz, and has everything to do with broadcasting a political message.

Regardless of one's political persuasion and whether one agrees or disagrees with the message of this musical, just be forewarned that Wicked is nothing more than a lecture bashing U.S. foreign policy. If I wanted a lecture, I would have rented a Michael Moore DVD.

And I'm left wondering where the commentary was on terrrorists beheading people? Where was the commentary on flying jets into tall buildings in the name of Allah? I guess chopping people's heads off and murdering 3,000 people because you're mad just isn't worthy of a flashy broadway musical. Unless the U.S. is the perp. Then it's Lights! Camera! Action!

Trying to Write Something Coherent

I've been trying to write something coherent here today. I'm having trouble because my mind is all scattered since I found out that the mayor of our town died suddenly last night. Not that he was a young man. I guess it's just that he's has been mayor of our little borough forever. We've been here 15 years, but even back then he'd already been mayor forever. He was the proverbial pillar of the community.

I can't say I knew him, or his wife of over 50 years, very well, but he was a fixture. He dressed up in costume for the town halloween party held every year in the local firehall and emceed the costume contest for all the town children. He showed up on our street every December dressed as Santa Claus, riding the firetruck, dispensing candy to whatever kids came running out of their houses. If a tree fell or a line was down someplace in the borough, there he'd be, making sure people were doing what they were supposed to.

He was just one of those guys who's always been here, and you presume, however irrationally, always will be.

But time marches on. My husband turned 47 today. We've been married 20 years, and our kids are leaving the nest. When we moved here, we had two kids and I was pregnant. We were the new young family in the town. Now we have four kids, one of whom is off at college, the second preparing to do the same. We're not old yet, but we are certainly headed in that direction.

Limbaugh Listeners Rock

I just couldn't let this go by without sharing. I listen to Rush Limbaugh once in a while, if I'm in the car while he's on. I find him hilarious, and wildly intelligent and entertaining. I read an article today on salon.com that derides Limbaugh's audience as ignorant, among other pejoratives. Anyone who knows anything about Rush Limbaugh's audience knows that these people are anything but ignorant. From a recent cover story on Rush in the Sunday New York Times Magazine:

"Limbaugh’s audience is often underestimated by critics who don’t listen to the show (only 3 percent of his audience identify themselves as “liberal,” according to the nonpartisan Pew Research Center for the People and the Press). Recently, Pew reported that, on a series of “news knowledge questions,” Limbaugh’s “Dittoheads” — the defiantly self-mocking term for his faithful, supposedly brainwashed, audience — scored higher than NPR listeners. The study found that “readers of newsmagazines, political magazines and business magazines, listeners of Rush Limbaugh and NPR and viewers of the Daily Show and C-SPAN are also much more likely than the average person to have a college degree.”

You may disagree with our views, but we are an educated bunch, and base our opinions on rational observation and study. Feel free to disagree with us, or with Rush's rhetoric. I don't always agree with him myself. But don't call me ignorant. I am well-informed and form my opinions accordingly.

Palin Prediction

I've been meaning to write something about Sarah Palin. Let me say first that I feel rather conflicted, because as of this writing, it's seems quite possible that with Palin on the ticket, McCain might just blow Obama right out of the water. And from all the hand-writing I'm seeing from news anchors, it's apparent that the left is freaking out. If the democrats really believed Palin to be such a light-weight, they wouldn't be running in panic mode right now.

I'm not crazy about McCain. I was contemplating not voting at all in the upcoming presidential election because McCain has been a big disappointment on more than one occasion. I've voted in every presidential election since I was old enough to vote. But Obama just plain scares me. I don't want to live in a socialist country. So I'm stuck with McCain, and I will vote for him.

But Palin. She reminds me of a lot of women I know, women who don't use their brains much as far as I can tell, except to mimic what they've been told in church. They justify their actions with statements such as "God told me to sell my house," or "God told me to go to Target." Forget free will and accepting responsibility for their own decisions. That way you can't blame them if things go to hell in a handbasket. It wasn't their fault. God's the one that told them to do it, blame him.

Who are these people to be so certain that God is up there, pulling our strings like so many puppets? Do I believe in God? I sure hope there is a God, but I'm willing to admit I won't know anything for sure until I'm dead and gone.

I may not like McCain, but I don't think he's a stupid man. He cares about the future of this country and the security of its citizens. Why oh why would he pick someone so obviously unqualified to be his #2?

Here's a crazy thought: Maybe he picks Palin because his gurus think she'll push all the right buttons, sweeping him into the oval office. But let's face it, folks, Sarah may be wonder woman, but she has five kids, including an infant with Down Syndrome. How's this for a scenario: McCain/Palin walk into office (I don't think the election is going to be that close. Obama gives people the creeps. And all the messianic rhetoric around him should alarm any thinking person.) McCain gives Palin some cushy duties, like visit a few heads of state, start a literacy initiative, go on some goodwill tours. Then (surprise!) Sarah, after much soul-searching (what should I do, God?) decides to resign from office to tend to the pressing needs of her ever growing family.

After which, in accordance with the 25th amendment to the U.S. Constitution, McCain picks the VP he wanted in the first place (Pawlenty? Romney? Giuliani (gasp)?) and Congress, which wouldn't have a bone to pick with any of those guys, confirms. ("Whenever there is a vacancy in the office of the Vice President, the President shall nominate a Vice President who shall take office upon confirmation by a majority vote of both Houses of Congress.")

This is all just wishful thinking on my part. Sarah might be a very nice capable intelligent woman. But can she run the U.S. without doing things because she says God told her to? Call me crazy, but I prefer a leader with experience, one who makes decisions based on rational thinking, and one who accepts responsibility for his/her decisions instead of bringing God into it.

Ike Strikes Suburbia

Sunday night I was laying on the bed upstairs, the Sunday Times spread out next to me, and switching the TV channels between various movies. The one I was watching at any given moment was determined by the incidences of commercials. First it was Philadelphia for a few minutes (Tom Hanks, always eminently watchable regardless of the subject matter), until some commercial for Toyota or Allegra came on, then I switched to The Wedding Singer (Adam Sandler--hardly an actor in the same league as Tom Hanks, but in this fluff 1980's send-up, just about perfect), until the ads for McCain or Obama or Microsoft, then I switched again, this time to The Wedding Crashers (Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn--a dumb premise with light-weight but highly paid and likeable actors--and rather raunchy at times but let's face it, the movie has some funny moments), until yet more commercials, when I either resumed the channel scanning or switched back to Philadelphia. Every so often I glanced at the Times but I was really too comfortable watching TV to exert myself intellectually.

Hubby and the boys were ensconced in the basement, watching the Steelers/Browns game, at that moment unfolding at Cleveland Browns Stadium. Hubby, having spent his tender youth in Cleveland, roots for the Browns, notwithstanding their pathetic record of late and the fact that we reside in Pittsburgh. The boys, naturally, are Steelers fans.

The wind was blowing. As a matter of fact, it was howling. Acorns were dropping like stones onto the wood deck below the bedroom window. The wind grew louder, and louder still. I had heard something about a wind advisory, but this was a little bit much. Then, all at once, the TV screen went dark, the house black. Sometimes the lights will flicker before the power crashes, but not on Sunday.

I lay on the bed in the pitch dark, the house dead quiet, but for the wind. I keep candles in the bathroom, and matches, somewhere in the top drawer, with the toothpaste, the cough drops, the Qtips, and a hundred other random bathroom items that have no other place to reside. I groped around the drawer, feeling for the little box of matches with the name of some restaurant or other printed in gold letters on the side, and as I fumbled around I thought briefly of Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark.

A flashlight was required, and we had several, in the kitchen downstairs. I knew they worked because I had just checked the batteries a few days before, in a rare fit of kitchen organization. I held my arms out in front of me, sweeping them left, then right, as I made my way out of the bedroom, down the hall, around the corner, and down the stairs. I reached the kitchen and the flashlights, and also remembered the camping lantern, which was still on the counter from a few days ago when I put new batteries in that too. Bingo! The lantern cast a soft glow all around me as I carried it toward the basement stairs, and long shadows played on the walls as I moved forward. I felt a little like a character in Jane Austen, one who's awakened in the middle of the night by a courier on horseback, and I have only a lantern to light my way.

I paused at the top of the stairs. I knew Hubby and the boys were down there, but it was dark and quiet. Then: "Hot potato hot potato!" with jingly music. Then quiet. Then: "Thunder!" Guitar music, then "Thunder!" ACDC?

"What are you guys doing down here in the dark?" I called as I descended the steps. A burst of giggles, and then I saw Hubby and two of the boys under a blanket on the sofa, laughing, and another son laying on the futon next to them, cracking up as he pressed the buttons on his cellphone. They were entertaining themselves, and providing meager light, playing random ringtones. "God they're easily amused," I thought, smiling. "Are you quite comfortable?" I asked. More giggling ensued.

Five minutes later, all five of us were on the bed upstairs, each with a flashlight, along with the lantern to illuminate the space. A candle flickered in the bathroom, where I left it after finally locating the matches. Something about the situation called for Monopoly, which we spread out on the bed and took our turns as the wind grew ever louder. It really did sound like a locomotive, but, I thought, it couldn't be anything like a tornado. There was no rain at all, and the sky looked nothing like the few times I had seen it when a tornado was imminent.

"Isn't this just like Little House on the Prairie," I asked, as I rolled the dice and moved past "Go".

"Mom, I really don't think they had Monopoly back then," Phil replied. He’s 14, the age at which he has to correct everything I say. But I, of course, was referring to the simplicity of the moment, when the family would gather around the fire in the evening, talking or playing a game, no distractions other than the weather outside. No one was plugged in, people weren't scattered about the house engaging in their solitary pursuits. We were in this together.

When we got tired, everyone went off to bed. The wind howled ever louder for a while, and while laying there I stared out the window. A full moon was shining brightly, hanging like a huge spotlight over the yard, and the trees were gyrating wildly, until Mother Nature finally settled down around midnight.

I woke a few times during the night, my eyes trained on the clock near the bed. It remained dark, so I knew whatever had caused the power outage was probably significant, and we could not count on having electricity any time soon. I got out of bed at 5:45 a.m. and headed to the grocery store to get a supply of water, since our pump had no power either.

While I hesitate to use the word devastation, I was shocked as I drove through the streets to see the number of fallen trees and limbs littering my little town. The scene reminded me of something you'd see on the news, after a hurricane or tornado rampaged through some town nowhere near where we live.

As I drove, I also wondered what one would do if the only available vehicle was electric. There's much in the news lately about the new generation of electric-powered vehicles. I suppose if we had one instead of our mammoth planet-destroying SUV (I don't really believe my vehicle has anything to do with the state of the climate), we'd have enough juice to get to the grocery store to get water. But what if there was some larger crisis? What if we had to get away because of some imminent danger, a terrorist attack, a war? I think I'd feel a lot more comfortable with a gas-powered vehicle rather than an electric one.

I hate to think of a doom-and-gloom scenario, especially because we were having that nice Little House on the Prairie moment. But even though it's been seven years now, 9/11 is still out there. We have an election coming up, and who knows what nefarious plans are being made even now by those who think paradise awaits once they blow themselves and a few innocent bystanders into oblivion? But that's not what this post was supposed to be about.

In the end, after the storm, we personally faced nothing more than a school delay and a whole lot of yard clean-up, plus the inconvenience of disrupted power and lack of water for 18 hours. We lost no trees at all, even though our yard is quite wooded. Neighbors, however, lost several large trees, some pulled up by the roots, some snapped in half, some landing on people's roofs and cars. Even today some are still without power.

So for now, we are safe and secure in our home, and everything is back to normal. I'm on the laptop in the kitchen; Phil is on his computer in his bedroom, and Noah no doubt is logged on in his room. Josh is laying on the floor in another room, playing DS. Hubby is at the office, probably on the phone or answering email. We are all plugged in, and there is very little prospect of Monopoly.