News - March 2006

Went to Vegas day after Superbowl to celebrate 11th wedding anniversary with the beautiful and charming Madeline.  While there, met with James Hudnall, (www.thehud.com) whose website is a beacon of light for those seeking good writing and informed opinion.  James gave me several discs he’d made, labeled “lounge music.”  In fact, they were all jazz with a lot of Mel Torme, Jo Stafford, Vic Damone, and others of the swing era.  We saw The Fab Four at the Aladdin, an uncanny Beatles recreation act that was note perfect.  Before the show, I leaned over and said to Madeline, “Be nice if Ed Sullivan introduces them.”  Seconds later Ed Sullivan appeared.  He was very funny.  The Fab Four did the early Beatles in the heavy dos, suits, and skinny ties.  They reappeared in their psychedelic Sgt. Pepper gear for Sgt. Pepper and points north.  The show was far too short, and I could have used a lot more Sgt. Pepper, White Album, and Abbey Road.  Naturally they have a website: www.thefabfour.com.

Set off for Madison with Kim Yee (www.karatewestinc.com) in Kim’s Element, a tall box on wheels.  It had snowed heavily and we foolishly made our way on Fourteen East, a lonely two-lane blacktop that winds among desolate prairie.  We gave up and headed north to Wyoming to pick up Interstate 80.  The misfire probably set us back an hour.  Interstate 80 was littered with trashed semis until we got to Nebraska.

Got to Omaha, dropped in sans notification at Joe Comstock’s house. Joe and his lovely wife Meredith didn’t bat an eye when I asked if we could crash there.  Joe showed me the bronze he had created based on Barry Smith’s Conan drawing.  It takes your breath away.  Joe is the equal of any star toy sculptor working today.  I hope Dark Horse picks this up. 

Twenty below in Madison.  Mom was not happy in her new digs.  They are smaller than her old digs.  Aging is a process of giving up: physical ability, space, material possessions.  The nursing home is among the best in the world, and the staff are competent and caring.  Except for the inevitable thieves who somehow slip through the screening process and lift anything they can take.  They stole my father’s gold chain and other pieces of jewelry.  They stole the Theracane.  There is little left to steal—it has been dispensed to the children or delivered into safe hands. 

Naturally Mom wanted a cigarette.  She’s been smoking since she was eighteen.  Since she is always on oxygen and it was twelve degrees below zero outside, this was quite a production.  I went to the third floor nurse’s station where the cigs are kept under lock and key.  I had been there when the nursing staff confronted Mom about her smokes, and asked her to sign a waiver absolving them of all responsibility.  Lighting up could mean the Big Casino.  Jimmy Cagney prancing atop that burning gas refinery.  “Top of the world, Ma!”  The nurse’s station told me they’d sent the Carltons down to the Health Center.  Health Center is a euphemism for the Last Stop.  Mom dons her faux lambs wool coat.  Her sparrow-like hands are too frail to force themselves through the wrist elastic, so I reach in from the outside and guide her arm through the cuff like a tug boat.  Then the black Russian hat which resembles a sea anemone.  Sunglasses.  We switch Mom from the stationary oxygen unit to her portable scuba tank.  Slowly, slowly I push the wheelchair through the carpeted halls.

Through the doors.  Freezing.  The Alberta Clipper’s in full force.  Gotta have that smoke.  I remove the breathing tubes from her nostrils, turn off the oxygen, step back into the foyer to light the cigarette, step back out and hand it to her.  A constant memory—driving from Mitchell to Sioux Falls, South Dakota for temple every Sunday in the old Dodge station wagon, Mom chain-smoking Kents.  She takes three puffs before reality sets in.  “All right.  That’s enough.”