by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

LXXXIII.
















Dip down upon the northern shore,
O sweet new-year delaying long;
Thou doest expectant nature wrong;
Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,
Thy sweetness from its proper place?
Can trouble live with April days,
Or sadness in the summer moons?

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,
The little speedwell’s darling blue,
Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew,
Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

O thou, new-year, delaying long,
Delayest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud
And flood a fresher throat with song.

Today: praying for Margaret.

The experiment at L’Enfant Plaza may be symptomatic of that, he said — not because people didn’t have the capacity to understand beauty, but because it was irrelevant to them.

Take the time to read this article. It made me heartsick.

h/t Mary Poppins Not…thank you for reminding me to stop and listen to the violin.

You know, they really meant that saying “skeletons in your closet” figuratively.

Last week’s illness has reminded me of my worst vacation ever, since I was similarly afflicted during that trip.

It was November of 1990. I was spending that semester of my “college experience” in Brussels, Belgium. Included in the tuition costs were several long weekend trips to various places, and the weekend before Thanksgiving our group headed to Paris.

Now things do not have to go perfectly for me to have a good time. I am very flexible and can make the best of most situations. But in Paris, I was sick, and so even the finest of luxuries would have left me grumpy. The fact that there were no luxuries only made things pure misery. The youth hostel was the worst I’d ever experienced in Europe: no seats on the toilets, no hot water (not even tepid), dubiously clean linens, obviously unclean floors. I had forgotten my blow dryer, so after a frigid shower, I went sightseeing in the gray November chill with a damp head. It is small wonder that after this weekend, I ended up with a double ear infection.

I did have some good moments on this trip. Mass at Notre Dame was lovely, except that I had no idea what they were saying, and I was a bit distracted by all the people. They don’t close down the cathedrals for Mass in Europe (not in any that I was in). So the priest might be consecrating the host while half the nation of Japan filters around the altar taking flash photos.

The view from the Eiffel Tower was fantastic, especially at night. But even more impressive was the wind. Buried in an album somewhere are photos of my friends acting like they’re about to be blown off the side.

I went to see Huis Clos performed just to say I saw Huis Clos performed. It’s a good thing I had read the play, because I don’t speak much French. In fact, I really only practiced two sentences much to my French teacher’s annoyance: Je ne parle pas français and Avez vous un briquet?

I remember purchasing some trinket from a street vendor. He “didn’t have any change”, though, so he suggested I select another item (I was 19, okay? One is permitted to be gullible when one is that young). I picked a black, leather whip, because I thought it was funny.

We went to the Louvre, but all I really remember is running running running. We must not have had much time. I remember seeing how small the Mona Lisa is, and I think I found the Venus de Milo, but everything else is a blur. Can you really appreciate art while dashing by?

We returned to Brussels a few days before Thanksgiving and the one American professor invited us all to his home for Thanksgiving dinner. I was still plodding through my illness, thinking any day I would start to feel better. Somehow I found enough energy to participate in a game of touch football that afternoon, but by the time I got to the professor’s house for dinner, my head was throbbing, and then my ear drums burst. Both of them.

I left before the turkey was carved and stood in the rain waiting for a tram. An elderly woman stood with me complaining about the weather and for once I wished I could do more than nod my head and say, “mais oui.” The next day I went to the doctor, but the recovery was long. I was completely deaf in one ear and mostly deaf in the other. Instead, I heard a high-pitched ringing that nearly drove me mad. I remember wishing I had a gun, so I could blow my brains out. I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the ringing to stop.

So, while Paris cultivates an image of romance and urban chicdom, all I think about is it being cold, wet and dirty and making me so sick I was suicidal. I had another ear infection in my early twenties, but not again until this past week. I don’t know why I didn’t “tough it out” as I usually do with illnesses, but I’m happy for the instincts that had me calling the doctor for an appointment last week. I can’t imagine re-living the agony of burst eardrums while trying to take care of my family. As it is, they suffered tremendously without homemade waffles and pancakes, clean laundry and hot lunches. Had Bill not been able to go to the grocery store or fetch take-out pizza, the world might have come to an end, I tell you.

Sartre should have known. Hell isn’t other people. Hell is a sick mommy.

23

I have an ear infection.

I have drugs.

Maybe tomorrow will be a good day.

Whatever works, but somehow I just don’t see Bill and I ever signing up for something like this.

But are the wrinkle gone?

Understatement of the day.

Son of a gun, I actually support this organization. It’s not as much what they did as much as the coverup that gets me.

…for a man at the end of his life.

For a peaceful passing, and for comfort for his friends and family.

A few years ago, I sat in my neighbor’s driveway and chatted while the kids played. My next door neighbor was there as well. It was just an ordinary afternoon.

The one woman’s husband was deployed to Iraq. My next door neighbor’s husband was TDY to Iraq. Bill was safely in Virginia (but Interstate 95/395 can be brutal, you know).

A strange car pulled into the driveway my next door neighbor and I shared. Inside were several people in Class A uniforms (not the ones from my previous post, but a more formal uniform…like what someone might wear on “official business”).

We all stopped breathing and waited.

Then the car backed out of the driveway and went back the way it had come.

We all exhaled.

“They’re for someone else,” one woman said. We went back to our ordinary talk.

I can’t imagine the additional stress a military wife has when her husband is in a combat zone. Bill was in Afghanistan for two days. I didn’t have enough time to get worried. When he deployed, it was on a peacekeeping mission to Kosovo. I had all the stress of single-parenting, but I didn’t have the daily worry about his physical well-being.

Jennie is worried about her husband. She’s been at it alone for nearly 11 months now. Her baby, a newborn infant when David left, is now a toddler. She needs our prayers. David needs our prayers. My family prays daily for “all the military people away from home,” but we’ll be adding an “especially for Sgt. C” until he’s safe in the arms of his beloved.

Old uniform. Bill in Kosovo.

From the company’s website: This boot style was designed by Dehner’s own H. E. Ketzler and General George S. Patton Jr. in 1937. Made for Patton’s Tank Corp, he wanted something easy and fast to get on, yet still giving firm ankle support. He of course turned to the Craftsmen at Dehner’s to fill the bill!

Of course.

I remember Bill carefully measuring his foot and lower leg. I remember him debating the options and considering the extra cost of an inch more leather. I remember tsking my disapproval at the extravagance – after all, a diamond ring was much more practical.

But boy, oh boy, were they sexy. His new ones, which he got as a 38th – 43rd birthday present (snicker: he turns 40 this year), just don’t have the same appeal. Those black Dehners are 15 years old now, and it’s sad to see them retired. They are a bit worn, despite being reserved for indoor wear only, so they would have to go anyway.

“Go.” Not really. They’ll be one of the few things I would never suggest tossing.