Category Archives: Life

Hyde Park’s weak hippie

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The sign on an empty storefront announces that “In a few weeks there will be a fruit and vegetable store here.” Below are sheets of paper with an invitation to make your desires and preferences known.

Someone requested varieties of that comfort fruit/vegetable, cheesecake. To clarify, “vegan” is penciled in nearby.

Another soul would like “bears, coyotes” to be sold. Someone helpfully noted that these items are “not vegan!”

One person would like to buy “ORGANIC — LOCAL!” Someone pointed to this request with an arrow and editorialized, one imagines somewhat sadly, “You’re a weak hippie.” Is this because the first writer is not fortified with pesticides and growth hormones?

Wacky weather and dragonflies

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After I picked up Hodge, who, I am told, was well behaved (I assume this is relative to his typical behavior versus relative to that of a normal cat), I went to Bonjour for coffee and sat inside. I noticed some cloud buildup in the west, and the temperature seemed a bit cooler when I came out.

On my way back, the sky to the east was mostly sunny, but a dark cloud loomed directly overhead, and when I reached Hyde Park Boulevard at 55th Street, the westerly wind began driving large, scattered drops of rain into my back and backside. A couple across the street held their umbrella straight in front in a defensive posture, but when it’s this windy, you’re simply going to end up wet with a torn-up umbrella.

The light changed, and I continued on. East of Everett Avenue, the sidewalks were dry — they weren’t even blotchy from the large, erratic raindrops. I looked back to the west and saw that the sky was clear in the same spot where the black rain cloud had hovered just minutes before. I wondered if it had moved over the lake that quickly and had stopped spitting rain as it moved.

This evening the wind has picked up, knocking over the pool and lawn furniture with abandon. Now the temperature is comfortably cool, and I would like to sit outdoors a while longer even as I batten down tea glass, notebook, and everything else that seems weightless to the gusts.

When I first came out, I spotted an enormous dull green dragonfly with a purplish “tail.” It tried to settle on one of the evergreens, but at that moment the wind kicked up and thrashed the bush around so much that I thought the dragonfly had had to let go or had been beaten to death by the flailing limbs.

During a brief lull, I was startled to see it take off and fly straight toward me, just a foot or two away. I thought it would dart past me, but it latched onto me, right in the middle of my left chest area, if you can picture that. “Great,” I thought, “if anyone sees me they’ll wonder why and how I’m nursing this giant dragonfly. ‘Do you often walk around with a huge dragonfly attached to your chest?’ they’ll think, and perhaps even ask.” How could I answer that, asked or unasked? Fortunately, my dragonfly friend and I were quite alone.

I love dragonflies and normally would enjoy the opportunity to see one so close at rest, but this seemed a little too intimate. With an unconscious, indiscernible movement, I persuaded the dragonfly to seek shelter somewhere more stable.

Nonetheless, perhaps it will bring me better luck.

Time and relativity

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I’m on the train returning to Chicago after what feels like the shortest vacation I’ve ever had. I slept more than I meant to and didn’t do some things I intended to , but I don’t regret that as I have before. I did what I could and enjoyed it without feeling bored, at a loss, or disappointed. Now the weather has turned hot and humid, so perhaps it’s best that I’ve gotten all that walking out of my system. When I get home, unpack, clean up a bit, and return to work, time, or my perception of it, will slow down to its normal, boring speed.

After eating at Casey’s Tavern last night, we visited Ann Arbor Too, which, like its sister bed and breakfast, is charming, albeit in a different way. The contemporary and discreet range successfully share the kitchen with a vintage pot-bellied stove that dominates the scene. A deck overlooks a lush green park, and a south sun room serves as the breakfast room. As my friend said, this house would be lovely in winter, too.

Yesterday we drove to Tantre Farm, where she has a share. I tried the Seascape strawberries — sweet, and the peas — crisp. We visited the chickens, which were enjoying the shade, along with turnips and strawberry tops. We also stopped to look at the cows. On the way back, I spotted a turkey vulture flapping around someone’s yard and several goldfinches flitting back and forth across the road with their characteristic up-and-down movement.

The next time I find myself succumbing to the inane concerns of small, controlling minds focused on the insignificant and oblivious to what matters, I must remember the goldfinches and the relativity of time.

Post-birthday blues

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I don’t feel blue, but for the first time since Sunday the sky is wholly overcast and the rain more than intermittent if not constant. I don’t mind rain and clouds, and sun causes me all kinds of problems, but at this time of year I prefer the partly sunny or cloudy of the past few days to complete gray. One damp woman, carrying a plant purchased at the farmers’ market through the rain, saw me, laughed wryly and said, “My umbrella’s is in the car — right where it belongs!”

Yesterday afternoon I celebrated my natal day by contacting the gynecologist, who told me Ignatius is 10 cm, one of his friends is 9.5 cm, and the third is large. She said that they’re about the size of a small medicine ball, although I’m not sure if she meant individually or combined. While my weight, which makes me a poor candidate for surgery, could be causing my lower back pain (a relatively recent development), she said that common sense would indicate that all that crowding could be affecting my bladder. Both back and bladder are interfering with my ability to walk as much as I would like, alas.

She referred me to the brochure she’d given me, so now it’s up to me. I’m still undecided, but I sent an e-mail inquiry via Ask4UFE to the radiologist. Now I suppose I should make a list of questions with my own spin.

We walked through a dense, young woods last evening, the kinds of woods that birds don’t favor — not enough open spaces. The lack of clearings didn’t faze the mosquitoes, which usually leave me alone. When they do bite, generally I don’t suffer much effect. This evening, however, I was a mosquito magnet, and now I have enormous red welts on my thighs and calves. It was a great excuse to sink into a comforting bubble bath with my current reading material and relax.

This morning, I headed for Falling Water, walked quickly through the farmers’ market lest I be tempted, and ended up at Café Verde, still my favorite place here. A man next to me told his friend that all he knows personally of the woman who will be his new boss is that she is “very smart and very competent.”

I don’t know who he is or what he does, but I envy him.

“I’ll cry if I want to”

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Mr. Wolf is correct — it’s my birthday, a date I hide from my day-to-day acquaintances and highlight on my Web site. Thank you to those who sent greetings.

I am celebrating by experiencing one of the pains of middle age — perhaps a rite of passage of sorts. For a while my lower back has been expressing unhappiness, and my abdominal region has been feeling tense and full of pressure. Both seem to have become worse recently, while my need for handy facilities has grown. It all makes being a pedestrian tourist somewhat difficult and painful, and my body seems to be telling my stubborn brain the same thing my friends have: “Get the UFE done already!” I hope my discomfort isn’t merely psychological because my awareness of increased within a couple of weeks of my conversation with the gynecologist. I would like to think I’m not that susceptible to a little suggestion.

In my planned rambles today, I found Hollander’s and spent too much there, then bought J. a T-shirt at Peaceable Kingdom. The “Dog Person” version was unavailable in his size, but “Cat Person” was. Heh heh heh. “Message, Spock?”

I finally came to Sweetwaters Café on Washington and thought I should have gone into the one in Kerrytown. For some indescribable reason, which could be familiarity, I think I prefer Café Verde. It could be because it feels less polished and more subversive than Sweetwaters, and it’s a little more tucked away.

Bob and Pat mentioned their second bed and breakfast, Ann Arbor Too,1 which also looks wonderful. Bob said that a bus stops there, frequently during the university’s year, so it wouldn’t be impossible for me to stay there without a car. It sounds delightful — an 1842 farmhouse adjacent to Miller Nature Area. Perfect for me.

I’d better start saving for my next birthday. Fortunately, it comes only once a year.

Aside: As I was leaving, I found the fairy door at Sweetwaters, then backtracked and saw Peaceable Kingdom’s.

1 Since sold.

Dream: Lost pencils and a “good tired”

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Both yesterday and today I’ve been unusually tired. I didn’t get much sleep Saturday night. I wanted to do some writing and reading on the train, but after I had settled in I couldn’t stay awake. Even sitting up in an uncomfortable position, I fell soundly asleep. This morning after breakfast I fell asleep, and then again this afternoon after I had gone for a walk and eaten a portobello mushroom and mozzarella sandwich at Café Verde. Even Love Buzz coffee and Earl Grey tea couldn’t keep me conscious. I hope I don’t sleep away my time here. The room, The Maine Woods, is comfortable, and the weather has been what my Pennsylvanian parents called “good sleeping weather.” My stressed body has noticed.

At Borders, of all places, I found four-color Camel pencils from Japan, as well as “Be Goody” lead pencils, also from Japan. The latter have an eraser end, but no ferrule. It’s an interesting and sleek design, and they write fairly smoothly and darkly, too.

At Motte and Bailey, I found The Complete Poetry of Richard Crashaw published in 1970, clearly never cracked open and therefore read; a similarly pristine copy of Gondal’s Queen: A Novel in Verse by Emily Jane Brontë published in 1977 by the University of Texas Press; and an unloved library edition of The Oxford Book of Children’s Verse published in 1973, complete with the stamped name, address, and phone number of a previous owner.

After lunch, a brief stop at People’s Food Co-op, the haul back, and some reading and writing on the balcony, I slept and dreamed that, as I was trying to get up and get off a bus, I noticed some of my favorite pencils missing from my case. I’m under the impression that I held the bus and made a fool of myself by getting down awkwardly to look under the seats, which I sensed didn’t endear me to my seat mate or other passengers. Then I finally got off the bus and found myself isolated on a quiet country road. The next thing I remember, someone had asked about the long-delayed development brochure, and the responsible person had a shouting fit and nervous breakdown over it.

After eating A.’s pizza, we watched Sweet Land, which, aside from being a love story, represents the foibles and the strengths of a small community, and how one can overcome the other. The scenes in set in 1968 were very evocative for me; Inge’s hair and glasses reminded me very much of a friend of my mother’s who happened to be not of German ancestry, but Norwegian. I do not know if her coffee was “too black.”

After I came back, I couldn’t sleep for a long time, but I also couldn’t stay quite awake, either. I am what my parents would call a “good tired.” Perhaps I should simply give into it and enjoy it when I can, even if it is during the day.

Dream: The royal wedding, and all aboard

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This morning I dreamed that I was looking at paintings that appeared to depict a Russian royal wedding and that it was vital that I put them into the correct order. I did not know whether they should be arranged chronologically or in some other order. In the middle of the stack I came to a magnificent full-length portrait of a woman in an ornate costume (the bride or her mother?) and thought perhaps she was meant to be the culmination of the series. I had a feeling that, if I didn’t get the order precisely right, something very bad would happen to me. Then a light started flashing beyond my closed eyelids — my alarm — and I woke up thinking some catastrophe was about to occur.

The early Sunday morning alarm was to get me up in time for a trip to Ann Arbor. I’m on the train now, passing through a cross section of countryside that probably represents a good portion of the eastern and midwestern United States — family farms, small towns, and industries of various sizes. In minutes you can pass everything from fields, trees, taverns, decaying houses, and bland new subdivisions to massive concrete smokestacks that put food on the table and a blight on the landscape and the soul.

As industry grew and promised a higher quality of life for more people, did anyone question whether this was any way to live? I remember a story about a place in Brazil where the air quality was so poor that the writer’s lungs began burning within minutes of getting off the plane. The lungs burn; the soul sickens; the animals die or disappear. Is this the fit legacy of general prosperity?

Unbeknownst to me, my dad lived a double life. Early every morning for 26 years, or nearly 30 percent of his life, he went to work at the Ford Stamping Plant in Lackawanna, New York, an industrial city south of Buffalo dominated then by Ford, Bethlehem Steel, and the rails that carried their shipments. The few times I went to or through that part of Lackawanna I must have felt like I had entered an alien world where all the beauty of nature had been completely supplanted by the ugly dreariness of steel, concrete, and pavement.

And every night he came home to a trailer facing an open field and backed by woods in which deer, rabbits, woodpeckers, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, cardinals, blue jays, and other animals thrived. He saw owls a few times; occasionally I heard whippoorwills. When we went to the butcher’s, they’d give us suet for the snowbirds, and we’d buy enormous bags of birdseed at the feed store or grocery. Watching the antics of the chickadees or cursing the aggressiveness of the blue jays gave both my parents great joy — a joy they could not have found in Lackawanna.

I have to remind myself that I can’t completely disparage industry, although I can lament some of its lasting effects. Without it, and unions like the UAW, men like my father might not have earned a living wage, been able to provide their wives and children with health and dental care, and had enough to live on during retirement (for my father, 23 years). In areas where industry has come and gone, the blight is felt the most — the negatives without the benefits.

It’s easy to forget about or ignore industrial blight when it doesn’t surround you — out of sight, out of mind — or when it blends into the urban landscape. From the vantage point of a train, as it travels through different human settings like a bit through layers of sedimentary rock, it is impossible not to compare and contrast the smokestacks of Hammond, Indiana, with the forest, fields, and farms of south central Michigan. Life on a farm is hard and uncertain, but there is a natural rhythm to it combined with an indefinable emotional satisfaction. Life in the shadow of the factory is also hard and uncertain, and the reward is to be able to provide for the family. In that shadow, however, how many wither and die inside?

As I see decaying or abandoned mills, plants, and other remnants of the age of industry in my train travels, I wish that we could reclaim the land — tear down the concrete and steel and let nature rebuild. But there is neither the money nor the will to restore the land, and so the Rust Belt grows ever rustier — part of our legacy to our future.

Dragonflies, catbirds, and dogs

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A couple of weeks ago in the garden at The Flamingo I saw a butterfly with muted orange, black-spotted fore wings and dark or gray hind wings clinging to the vines and soaking up the sun’s rays. I’ve seen this kind before, so I assumed it would be easy to find in my field guide book or online. I still haven’t found it, although it has to be a common species, nor have I seen it again.

When I’ve walked out here in the last couple of weeks I’ve sent a half dozen dragon- and damselflies darting to the left and right, back and forth. I seldom get to see them clearly, although I’ve caught a glimpse of metallic blue on one damselfly and metallic green on another. Sometimes I wonder if I am the only person who notices them as they fly about, and if the children appreciate these jewels on the wing as much as I do.

Last week I noticed a catbird trying to get a grip on a branching twig with its bill. The first time I recall seeing a catbird was in my cousin’s yard. I heard the mewling of what sounded like a desperate cat, but when I looked all I could see was a long-tailed gray bird. I should not be surprised to see one here; they were pretty common in the wooded areas at Lincoln Park Zoo.

Sunday morning a thunderstorm with high winds and heavy rain drove in a man who’d taken his little dog for a walk. The walk turned into a run as sheets of rain came down and the sky flashed, and the little dog could hardly keep up with the master. When you see the sky turn green and feel the wind pick up, take it as a sign that Fluffy can find relief at the nearest lamp post or tree, and real “walkies” can be put off a while longer.

Now, after a sweltering day that threatened storms for much of the afternoon, the air has cooled and the sun is setting here even as it rise somewhere else, and thus ends my weekly respite from the weird and not-so-wonderful alternative reality.

The plot to murder Ignatius, part two

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Before I left the gynecologist’s office, I made an appointment for an ultrasound for the next morning. Later it occurred to me that I hadn’t been told to drink lots of water beforehand. I was even more confused when the administrative assistant and the ultrasound technician both asked me if I needed to use the bathroom.

“Don’t you need the person to have a full bladder so you can see?” I asked the technician. I told her about my previous experiences.

“No, we don’t have to do it that way anymore,” she replied.

As she went about her preparations, the back of my mind mulled this. The technology hadn’t changed that much, so I was mystified by the change in direction. Hesitatingly, I asked what was different now that a full bladder is no longer required.

“With a vaginal ultrasound, a full bladder would just get in the way,” she explained.

A vaginal ultrasound? I’d never had one and wasn’t going to now, I thought, as I eyed a wand sticking up from the machine with suspicion.

I told her I wanted an abdominal ultrasound only.

“Well, that’s a problem because I won’t be able to see what I need,” she said, explaining why and adding a discreet reference to the size of my stomach.

“I won’t have it done.”

“I’m not comfortable doing an abdominal only because it’s not going to show what we need to see.”

“And I’m not comfortable with a vaginal ultrasound.”

After a few rounds, it became clear we had reached an impasse.

She paused in her preparations, and I could see her mentally weighing how to handle this. I couldn’t be talked or forced into a vaginal ultrasound, yet I wouldn’t there if the gynecologist hadn’t wanted a look. She sighed.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll look to see how much water you need to drink, and we’ll try it.”

So she looked. And looked again. And kept looking without stopping to have me drink water.

“Can you see anything?” I asked.

“Yes. I can see your left ovary, which is good. Your uterus is so large that this is going to work out fine. The only thing that the vaginal ultrasound would have picked up that this can’t is your cervix, which your doctor can see during an exam.” She paused and said brightly, “See, the patient knows best!”

“I don’t know anything,” I said, “except that I wouldn’t like a vaginal ultrasound.”

She laughed. “No one likes it!”

She told me there are two fibroids to the left and either a third large one or a large cluster of several smaller ones. She gave me the measurements, which I was not in a position to write down. I remember, I think, three inches by four inches and four inches by four inches for two of them. Cumulatively, the measurements would be about 10 inches each way. She confirmed my doctor’s estimation that the uterus is the size of a 20-week pregnancy. With ruler in hand, I can see why that would be considered “enormous” or “huge” and how it might cause bladder and other discomfort. Next week the gynecologist will tell me what she thinks.

A UFE is starting to look like a possibility . . .

The plot to murder Ignatius, part one

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At last, after two missed appointments due to bad timing, I met my new gynecologist. Like many contemporary physicians, she has ditched the traditional unisex lab coat and practical shoes. She has opted to sport a dress and heels, both of which looked uncomfortable to me.

Her assistant performed the usual preliminaries (height, weight, blood pressure) and asked me if I wanted her to be present during the examination. I am not sure I understand why having Stranger 1 in the employ of Stranger 2 present while Stranger 2 examines me would be desired. Having one stranger checking out your nude, vulnerable body seems uncomfortable enough without a witness.

The doctor met with me in her office, which was decorated with appropriate texts (Complete Gynecology), family portraits and candids, and knickknacks. Despite the touches, it didn’t reveal any personality. Even the family photos could have been anyone’s family photos, a thought that makes me sad. On the surface at least, we are not as unique as we like to think.

She asked the usual questions, then the conversation turned to my primary interest — Ignatius and his fellow fibroids. Her recommendation is a uterine fibroid embolization, or UFE, in which “microspheres” are inserted via the femoral and uterine arteries to block or decrease the blood flow to the fibroids (a form of slow fibroid murder). While not a surgery, the procedure is not without risks, of course, which I have to weight against the discomfort to which I seem to have become accustomed. I could carry on without a UFE, although Ignatius and company are showing a disturbing tendency to grow. On the other hand, a number of women say that they felt immensely better within days of their UFE and that they are glad they had it performed. As Virgil says, something that large can’t feel right. And who doesn’t want to feel immensely better, especially when they have a vague feeling they don’t feel as well as they could?

Then we moved to the examination room and got down to business. At the sight of my scar, she expressed shock. “I thought you said you had an appendectomy? That’s a big scar!” (Curious, I later measured it; it’s about seven or eight inches long and one-eighth to one-quarter inch wide.) I explained my understanding of what happened, which is that my “hot potato” appendix was hiding demurely behind my bowel, necessitating a search-and-rescue party. Now even I wonder why it required an incision the length of two hands side by side.

Her first attempt with the pap smear was unsuccessful because the swab was too short, or, as she put it, “You have a long vagina,” which, I think, qualifies as one of those things one doesn’t need to know about one’s own anatomy.

She must have struck the proverbial pay dirt with the second attempt because for an eternity it felt like an enraged pit bull had a very sensitive internal part in the grip in the grip of its sharp teeth and powerful jaws. I bit my lip. I tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress groans and even a tear or two. Finally, the pit bull let go. I’m sure I would have remembered that much pain during previous samplings! I blame Ignatius.

After the breast exam, always fun when I’m in the throes of PMS, it didn’t take much effort for her to find my uterus, which is “huge.” (“Enormous” or “huge” — take your pick. I gather that it’s a bit larger than the norm.) Naturally, between the fat and the fibroids, she couldn’t feel my ovaries — they’ve been in hiding for several years. Clearly an ultrasound was in order.

Next: Fun with the ultrasound technician.