I Choked
I heard the call: “Doctor! We need a doctor! CPR! Help! Does anyone know CPR?” and I choked. If asked, never in bazillion million years would I have said I would turn away. Before tonight, I believed I was one of them….
I looked around the room, expecting someone else to respond.
The Literary Advance of Houston Champions of Literacy Series dinner, sponsored by the Junior League of Houston, was coming to a close. I was standing at my table, saying farewells to the copyeditors and publisher of my new picture book, Dance, Y’all, Dance, when the call rang out.
I jumped when the call rang out.
I was ready. I knew CPR. I could help….
And maybe, if the person who needed help had been within eyesight I might have flown to her side.
But she was out of sight.
In the hallway.
And there were loads of people still in the room.
“I can’t believe there isn’t a doctor here,” one of my companions remarked.
I agreed. In this vast pool of fully literate and deep pocketed attendees who could believe not one was a doctor….there had to be a doctor.
We continued with our conversation.
And moved onto other subjects.
I had pretty much forgotten the distress call when our goodbye group was interrupted by the arrival of one of the event organizers (one in the “know”).
“What happened to the person?” someone in the group asked. “Is he or she alright?”
We didn’t’ know the gender, hadn’t cared enough to find out, I Choked.
I heard the call: “Doctor! We need a doctor! CPR! Help! Does anyone know CPR?” and I choked.
If asked, never in bazillion million years would I have said I would turn away; before tonight, I believed I was one of them….
I looked around the room, expecting someone else to respond.
The Literary Advance of Houston Champions of Literacy Series dinner, sponsored by the Junior League of Houston, was coming to a close. I was standing at my table, saying farewells to the copy editors and publisher of my new picture book, Dance, Y’all, Dance, when the call rang out.
I jumped when the call rang out.
I was ready. I knew CPR. I could help….
And maybe, if the person who needed help had been within eyesight I might have flown to her side.
But she was out of sight.
In the hallway.
And there were loads of people still in the room.
“I can’t believe there isn’t a doctor here,” one of my companions remarked.
I agreed. In this vast pool of fully literate and deep pocketed attendees who could believe not one was a doctor….there had to be a doctor.
We continued with our conversation.
And moved onto other subjects.
I had pretty much forgotten the distress call when our goodbye group was interrupted by the arrival of another.
“What happened to the person?” someone in the group asked. “Is he or she alright?”
We didn’t’ know the gender—hadn’t cared enough to find out—let alone the ideentiy of this “poor-unfortunate-in-need-of-aide we had been so consurned about minutes before.
I was one of the “good Samaritans” or so I had always assumed. One of those who jumped ran, rushed to the aide of a countryman. Smug in this belief, I had conducted myself: passed judgment; heaped praise but when the call for “help” an honest call, a true call rang out, I ignored it...
What does that make me?
National Gallery of Writing--Open for Viewing!
October 20, 2009 was the National Day on Writing! And the day the National Gallery of Writing— “a virtual space—a website—where people who perhaps have never thought of themselves as writers—mothers, bus drivers, fathers, veterans, nurses, firefighters, sanitation workers, stockbrokers—select and post writing that is important to them,”—officially opened.
“Writing is a daily practice for millions of Americans, but few notice how integral writing has become to daily life in the 21st century,” notes the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) who established the National Gallery of Writing in an effort to “draw attention to the remarkable variety of writing we engage in and help make writers from all walks of life aware of their craft.”
The National Gallery of Writing includes three types of display spaces where writing can be found:
1. The Gallery of the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE) represents a broad cross-section of writing hosted by the National Council of Teachers of English.
2. National Partner Galleries include writing that corresponds to a theme or purpose identified by National Partners participating in this initiative.
3. Local Partner Galleries include works from writers in a classroom, school, club, workplace, city, or other local entity.
Add your writing to the Gallery Collection:
Writers who “would like to share their craft and find a broad and diverse audience” are encouraged to submit their writing for inclusion in the Gallery. Guidelines are posted on the website: National Gallery of Writing website
The National Gallery of Writing is open for submissions/viewing/reading through June 30, 2010.
In The Still of the Night
It's 4:53 in the morning. I'm sitting on the toilet in my daughter's Manhattan studio apartment clicking on my computer. I've come into "the other room" because I can't sleep and I'm tired of lying in bed trying not to move while thoughts whirl like gazpacho in a blender. I would be thrilled to have stayed in the cozy bed reading my book or writing down some of these ideas, but I didn't want to turn on the light and disturb Lexi. She deserves her sleep; she has to work in the morning. I was sleeping, cozy on my side of the pillow barrier with my daughter's familiar sleep breathing serenading me from her side. But something woke me. I believe it was the upstairs neighbor moving furniture around. Furniture moving seems to be his hobby. His movements, like furtive hamster cage skittering overhead, usually begin at 6:00 am sharp.
I have decided he must work from home and compartmentalizes his day by moving furniture: 6 am, put up the Murphy bed or other sleeping platform and replace it with breakfast table and chair; 8 am, rearrange furniture to create office space; noon, turn space back into dining area; 2ish, reconfigure area into office; between 4 and 5, reopen the restaurant; around 7 create entertainment area; 9 pm, shove all moveable furniture to the edges of the space so there is room to pull down the Murphy bed or sleeping platform; rest, repeat, repeat, repeat. As annoying as this scratching, scraping, moving, shuffling seems, once identified, the sounds fade. Not as completely as the regular chiming of the Coo-coo Clock, but almost. Some Einstein theorized this phenomenon: Repetitive Noise+Pattern+Time=White Noise. The neighbor's activities are Gray.
My daughter lives in one of three soldiers in a row, each divided into studio apartments. Sitting here in the bathroom trying not to make noise, I wonder: I can't be the only one? In the studio apartments above and around me, are others hold up in bathrooms trying not to make too much noise? Or burrowed under covers with flashlights so companions can sleep? Have some of them created miniature "safe" spaces in their tiny studios with black out curtains and noise mufflers-perhaps under the sink...or in a closet? Is this apartment living?
I have an idea: The tub takes up quite a bit of space. Why not remove it entirely. Lexi could get used to sponge baths, couldn't she? In exchange for more room. The owner wouldn't fuss, would she? Or, if we have to leave the tub, what about adding a waterproof desk area on one end of the space-with a prefab plastic chair and a pull-down desk? Surely in this city of millions of people living in millions of similar cubicles, someone has created one?
Please tell me: Over time Gray Noise fade to White, doesn't it?
How much time?
Saying Yes!--BWA Chorus
It's surprising the places saying "yes" to a friend takes you. Yesterday afternoon, I ventured out in the midst of a thunderous tropical storm because of one such "yes." Some moist minutes later, I found myself sitting in a circle of women with a music folder on my lap singing Christmas carols in preparation for the British Women Association's (BWA) Christmas Luncheon. The BWA Christmas Luncheon is a festive gala and fundraiser-a high point of the holiday season. Each table is assigned a name and attendees decorate their tables and themselves in keeping with their names. Table names range from Santas and Elves to Fruitcakes and Crackers (crackers being party poppers not saltines-think British). A prize is awarded to the Best Decorated table.
For a few years I have been a member of the bawdy "American Table," as we are called, although our group has a more International flavor than the title indicates, including representatives from Australia, South Africa, Holland, Transylvania, Texas (a country unto itself), New Zealand and the US. The unofficial "bawdy" in our title is the one constant (and no doubt why we are called the "American Table" in contrast to the demure and understated "British Tables.")
One year ours was assigned the title "Angel" table. We dressed as angels, decorated our table with clouds of fluff, sparkles, heaven-sent silver-wrapped chocolates, buckets overflowing with bubbles and billowing smoke, and flew away with the grand prize. Last year ours was the "Bell" table-quickly changed to "Silver Belles." The eleven of us arrived as Hand Bell Choir dressed in black tops, matching silver hoop skirts, red sashes and bell earrings. Bells jingled from our skirts and jangled on our wrists and ankles. We decorated our table with a red runners and gaudy silver papier-mâché bell-shaped bottle covers concealing spirits and juice. We took the grand prize, again (our closest competition being the Gifts who had tied packages onto their heads like hats). We celebrated our victory as any true Hand Bell Choir would, with an rendition of "Silver Bells" to the accompaniment of our swaying/playing belle skirts. While our performance elicited mixed reviews: applause and hoots, high-nosed "those Americans," glowers and head-shaking, I have a suspicion it also planted a seed...
For this year's luncheon, the BWA has decided to add Christmas Carols to the Christmas Luncheon festivities. They are putting together a choir for the occasion. My sweet friend Barbara had been recruited to play piano and asked me to join her. After the unsolicited spectacle I had made of myself last year, everyone knew I could sing (loudly and off-key, but with enthusiasm), and that I knew the words (or made them up). How could I say no?
About ten ladies were already assembled when I arrived at the BWA house for the first official choir practice, yesterday. I knew most of the ladies. But even those I didn't seemed to know me. (A reputation had preceded me, but which one? I wondered.) One woman stood when I entered and came forward, offering a wide smile and ebullient "You must be Kelly!" She turned out to be Diane, the choir director.
After giving everyone a chance to "settle in and get acquainted" Diane corralled us into a half-circle around the piano. "We'll begin with a few easy songs to limber up our voices and bring us at ease," Diane said, passing out song books.A few bars into Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Diane stopped us. "I want to tell you right now." She paused, looking around. "You all are capable of doing much, much more than you think you are. I am hearing some interesting things." (What did interesting mean? )
After warm-ups, Diane passed around the official songbooks and pencils and began directing us to make musical notations on our music. "The little seven with a dot is a rest," she instructed, "circle those." Pf meant something fortissimo, mm something else, mp or pp or p each mean softer or softer still or even softer-or something else. I glared at Barbara's back. She misled me. This wasn't a going to be the casual fa-la-la sing-along around the tree, this was a real choir-as in Vienna Boys'-with altos and sopranos, two-part and three-part harmony and notations called fortissimo and something-crotchets. "Is something-crotchet a real music term?" I asked Elsa, the girl next to me. She smiled, thinking I was making a joke. As if...
Being the only non-Brit in a British choir (Aside from Barbara, a Javanese married to a scot and to a Brit by marriage, who I wasn't counting since she was at the piano) is not easy. Even if I could read music and did know how to sing properly, it wouldn't have been easy. The lyrics change from one side of the pond to the other. Who knew "bring us some figgie pudding," is part of the real lyrics in We Wish You A Merry Christmas? And while lyrics can be read, pronunciation has to learned and remembered. Flat or not, when most of the group is singing "bean" and one lone voice belts out "Ben" it's bad. (How do Brits pronounce womb, anyway?)
As rehearsal progressed, Diane stopped us from time to time with suggestions and encouragement: "I'm hearing some interesting things!" "try to keep to just one line, top or bottom whichever you think, but only the one-you may have to follow it with your finger" "want to have a go at adding a top?" (Top what?)
I finally got up the courage to ask Diane the question I had been wondering since the moment she started dividing us into tops and bottoms. "How do I know which I am supposed to be?"
Diane looked at me, sizing me up, no doubt wondering if asking me to turn in my song book would be committing some sort of political faux pas. "Do you have more difficulty holding high notes or holding low notes?"
I shrugged. "Sometimes both." I admitted. "Will you do me a favor and sneak up behind me sometime while I am singing and tell me."
I think Diane thought I was joking, then realized I was serious. She nodded. "A very good idea," she agreed, adding, "For the time being, why don't you try to stay right in the middle and just sing the tune. We need those who just sing the tune, as well."
During O Christmas Tree-a less that adequate translation according to Diane (different even than the American version)-the score became "quite daring" and the bottom (the alto line) crosses over the top (the soprano line) meaning that the low voices are supposed to sing higher notes than the high voices are singing-which doesn't sound so tough, but...
On about "let's try that once again" number 15, it struck me that the scene was like something out of a movie: a hap-hazard bunch of British women, a Javanese pianist, and one bawdy American coming together in steamy central java to organize a choir in time for the Christmas Fete. Yes! I can see the flashing marquee now: The Alto Who Climbed Up the Scales and Came Down a Soprano.
- Last practice the BWA sprouted antlers--must have been in tune!
Fight if you must--but leave the goldfish out of it!
My sis-in-law Liz sent me this article written by a friend of hers, Mark Fleming, and originally published in the Pasedent Citizen on September 29, 2009:
No charges filed in goldfish dispute
By MARK FLEMING
Jewelry and goldfish were at the heart of a Pasadena domestic dispute Saturday, when a man reported his common-law wife had kidnapped his seven pet goldfish, and was holding them hostage in an argument over some jewelry she said he had taken from her.
When a police officer went to the couple’s residence in the 1100 block of Queens Road to try to negotiate the release of the unfortunate fish, the woman said she was unable to return them, as she had already fried the fish and eaten three of them.
No charges were filed in the case, according to Vance Mitchell, public information officer for Pasadena Police Department.
Speaking for fish-lovers everywhere, this is just wrong. Since this story was published, Fleming has been asked my many if he is going to write a follow-up to this story. He said he didn't plan to as he had "bigger fish to fry."
Why is it always the fish who suffer?
Where is That Fountain?
In our pursuit of everlasting youth, there may be such a thing as going too far. And I may have gone there... Monday last, for our weekly Artist's Date, the GGs (my creativity recovery group) took at trip to the Nu-Skin office. We had appointments to check our skin in their patented, revolutionary, computerized skin analyzer.
For the test, I put my face inside a cave, with my chin on the chin-rest, and my forehead smashed against the top. The technician asked if I was wearing make-up, pressed a few buttons, the machine whirred, lights flashed and the test was done. Moments later an image of my face appeared on the monitor.
Whether the results would have been more accurate had I not been wearing make-up, I frankly, do not care. As it was the image showed more blotches and wrinkles that I care to ever gaze upon again. I gasped in horror. Was this really what I looked like? What everyone else saw when they looked at me? More make-up-I definitely need more make up. "Turn it off! Hurry!" I begged.
Stone faced, the porcelain-skinned technician outlined half my T-zone-the area from mid-nose, beneath the eye across the cheekbone, around the "apple" of my check and back up the base of my nose, pressed a few more buttons and a page with the results of my analysis spit out: I had 392 uneven patches, 9 sun spots, 3 deep wrinkles, 79 extra-large pores, and 108 blotches-on that tiny portion of my face; roughly 1/10th of the whole.
It's no wonder I said yes to so many products when it came purchase time. I went home with my costly Fountain of Youth magic, fully committed to using every elixir as directed! Daily, weekly, thrice daily, whatever it took, I was going to make myself forever young.
Yesterday I took the 1st step with a visit to my hair stylist. "Make my hair young, hip, fresh!" I told Roberto. (Fresh is what we in Jakarta call all of those together, what advertisements call new and improved.) He tried...
This morning, I began my new beauty regime. (So what if it has taken me almost 2 weeks to open my goodie bag. I never said when the commitment would begin. I had to wait for exactly the right time.) I went straight for the big guns-to what the salesman called the "signature" product in the Nu-Skin arsenal-The Face Lift. When explaining how to use The Face Lift the salesman had effused: apply it, lay back with your feet up and eyes closed, listen to soothing music, relax. You'll feel it working. Whaa-lah! 20 minutes later your skin will be tighter, firmer, younger, fresh!
I mixed a teaspoon of powder A with a teaspoon of potion B, stirred, applied it to my face with upward strokes, as directed, set the timer for 30 minutes (not 20 as I had been told), plugged in my I-pod, and stretched out on my yoga matt with my feet propped on the elliptical machine. (Ok, so it wasn't the luxurious silk-pillowed Bali bed with the feathered fan wafting the salesman's description had conjured-I wasn't about to get this gunk on my good stuff.)
Seconds after application, The Face Lift started working. And boy did it! As it dried my face began tingling, tugging, pulsing, itching. It was more irritating than any of the nylon labels I had ripped out of my clothing. Worse than a million ant bites. Worse than a sandy, wet swimsuit on a long, hot car ride home from the beach-and I was supposed to stay still, not touching, not scratching, not twitching my nose and relax????
But the end of song one, I realized the enormous mistake I have made with my IPod selection; I should have loaded it with a book on tape or NPR program instead of Ella. At the end of each song I counted out the time remaining-at 3 minutes per song I was going to have to endure this tickle-tingle-itch torture for 9...8....7 more slow, bluesy, whiny songs? I hate you Ella!
Mid-song 6 my IPod died. Take note: Check Your Charge; enduring torture in silence is triple torture. "Curtis" I yelled-as much as it's possible to yell without opening your mouth or moving your lips-"Urtis! Urtis! URTIS!!!!!" He saved me by swapping his iPod for mine. (As payment he took blackmail photos while I stiff-lipped "OP, OP-IT-IGHT-OWWWW!!!)
Seconds before I gave up all my top secret secrets the timer dinged. I raced into the shower and spent the next five minutes "soaking" off The Face Lift.
My mother always says, "You have to suffer to be beautiful." For all the suffering I did this morning, I should look like Mrs. Flippin' Universe. But do I? Did The Face Lift work? My face definitely feels different. As for "tighter, firmer, younger, fresh"... You decide:
