Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
May you all have a contemplative Memorial Day, full of gratitude for those who gave their last breath, to protect, preserve, and defend this experiment in self government.
Please consider this, a story of one such sacrifice.
“Saving Miriam”, regarding Corpsman Chris Walsh.
I read it, and my damned allergies overcame me.
This gentleman gets it, and kudos to him for Being The Dad.
https://ogdaa.blogspot.com/2021/04/sunday-video-2_01180543565.html#comment-form
As may prove to be no surprise, it reminds me of one parenting encounter of my own, years and years ago. One day, TDW-Mark I, our children and I were out someplace having dinner. It had occurred to me that TDW-Mark I might enjoy an evening NOT in the kitchen, and so we bundled up our brood, and went out to dinner. So, there we were, conversating and dining and generally having a nice time, when Number Two Son, whom we will call Charlie, apparently decided that he was not receiving enough attention. Now, Charlie was, at this point, something like 3 years old. I expected that he would know better, but, well, I was mistaken.
So, he was yelling, and standing up in his chair, and generally making a scene. I attempted to verbally redirect him, but, no-go.
My wife was not enjoying the shenanigans, and therefore I decided to remedy her dilemma. I stood, scooped Charlie up, placed him over my shoulder, “fireman’s carry” style, and walked out of the restaurant.
I could feel the eyes on me, as we departed, with a Bill Engvall-esque vibe of “somebody’s gonna get a whooping!” But, I had a slightly different plan. (don’t imagine that I was not tempted…)
Outside of the restaurant was a low stone wall. I sat Charlie thereon, and assumed my R. Lee Ermy persona. I placed myself nearly nose-to-nose with my son, and barked, “You are not a baby! You know how you are supposed to act! This acting up is NOT acceptable! You will sit there, quietly, until you are able to behave correctly! Do you understand me?”
His eyes teared up, and he replied, a quaver in his voice, “Yes, daddy.”
I snarled, “Very good! Now, you tell me when you are able to behave like you know you are supposed to!”
I stood, wrapped one hand in the other, behind my back, and paced back and forth before him, a scowl written large across my face.
After several minutes of this pacing, I turned to my son, and addressed him. “Have you had enough? Are you ready to act right?”
He sniveled, “No, daddy. Not yet.”
I had to abruptly turn, to hide the smile that burst across my face, and to hide my struggle to not laugh out loud.
Another couple of minutes later, he volunteered, “Daddy? I’m ready to behave, now!”
We re entered the restaurant and Charlie was subsequently the very model of proper toddler behavior.
Long ago and far away, I married The Woman Who Would Become The Plaintiff. She brought two children with her, a son, hereinafter referred to as Adam, and a daughter, who we will refer to as Brenda. These children had two different fathers, Brenda’s being Of The African Persuasion, as an old medic partner of mine had termed it. TWWWBTP (“the plaintiff”) was, herself (as am I) of the white-bread heritage group.
This led, of course, to her mother referring to her brood as “My own little league of nations”.
Well, time passed, love bloomed (and, subsequently, withered), and my children (all four of them, notwithstanding that fact that two of them had my chromosomes, and two did not) all grew up, became adults, and set off to establish their own families.
Brenda had her own adventures, eventually settling down with a good man, who accepted her oldest daughter, treating her as his own. Brenda wound up having four children in total, ranging from melanin enhanced, to melanin deprived. (genetics can work out in surprising ways).
So, Brenda tells the story of having photographs of her mother (anglo), dad (anglo), oldest child (genes from 1/4 Africa, 1/2 Central America, and 1/4 Europe), and three youngest children (all of whom were paler, having no Central American genetics). You might imagine a picture gallery of “shades of gray”, if you wished.
Co-workers would wander past, and notice the chromatic array featured in her pictures, prominently displayed on my daughter’s (biracial her own self) desk.
“Who’s that?”, they would ask, gesturing at the children’s photos.
“My kids.”
“Who’s that?” they would ask, pointing at my photo.
“My dad.”
Who’s that?”, pointing at The Plaintiff’s photo.
“My mom.”
In Brenda’s telling, there would follow a metaphorical “tennis match”, and her interlocutor’s eyes would go from photo “A”, to her own visage, to photo “B”, and back to her face, and back and forth, for a couple of iterations.
“Were you adopted?”
“Nope.” (I never started adoption proceedings for my two oldest children, a failure on my part.)
More gaze-tennis, as they attempted to process this. And failed.
Brenda finished her tale, grinning. “I really enjoy spinning up folks’ minds! Most never seem to make sense of it!”
Which tale reminds me of another yarn, circling around my story of Carmen’s (the oldest child) surgery. I accompanied my daughter to Carmen’s pre op visits, both because she (Brenda) kind of wanted to focus on her child (imagine that!), as well as, I surmise, Brenda thought that having nurse-and-midlevel-Dad at hand, might be comforting.
So, TINS©, There I Was, sitting in the interview room as the intake nurse was interviewing Brenda, regarding Carmen’s medical history. The nurse asked Brenda, “Is there any diabetes, heart disease, lung disease in your family?”
Brenda responded, “Uh, no, no there isn’t”.
I chimed in (pay attention to this: Brenda is my STEP-DAUGHTER, recall!), “Honey, don’t you want to mention my cardiac stents?”
So, my daughter turned her gaze my way, and, gently, admonished me. “Uh, Dad? I really do not think that *your* genetics are going to affect Carmen. Do you?”
Brenda then turned to the nurse, and clarified. “He’s my step dad, you know.”
Now, I am by no means any sort of authority in such matters, but, I cannot help wondering if, oh, I dunno, READING ONE ENTRY OF THE FREAKING BLOG might help you avoid appearing to be a (poorly programmed) machine?
Because, those of you who have read a single one of my posts likely know that they do not have word one (at least, not salutary word one) about “computer systems”.
Following is a “comment”:
Freebies7 hours ago·www.cravefreebies.com/freebiesUser InfoSpamTai Chi: You’re Doing It Wrong!
I have seen loads of useful things on your site about computer systems. However, I’ve the judgment that notebooks are still not quite powerful enough to be a wise decision if you often do projects that require a great deal of power, including video enhancing. But for net surfing, statement processing, and the majority of other prevalent computer functions they are just fine, provided you may not mind the small screen size. Many thanks for sharing your opinions.
Reading and comprehending. It is A Thing!
So, TINS©, TIWFDASL© in the little, rural ER at Erewhon Memorial Hospital (slogan: “Both Nowhere, and Backwards!”). Remember (because, after all, y’all have read, studied, and committed to memory Every Single One of my blog posts, of course!) that long ago, and far away, I had been an orderly on the gen med floor of TBTCIDC. In that capacity, I had been presented with two keys, one of which would unlock a Posey brand locking vest restraint, the other of which would unlock a Posey brand limb restraint. The key to this latter resembled a handcuff key, only on a considerably larger scale.
One evening, in Erewhon’s ER, a local State Police trooper entered, seeking some assistance. It seemed that out towards the periphery of our county, some child had found Grandpa’s antique handcuffs, and has secured himself to a radiator or some such immovable object. This child had done so, PRIOR to identifying the key required to unlock the handcuffs, and, of course, said key was nowhere to be found. The officer was on the verge of inviting the local fire department to demonstrate their extrication skills, featuring property damage, destruction, and loud noises, but wondered if we might have something less dramatic, to release the child. The officer noted that the key required resembled a handcuff key such as the key he, himself had, only considerably larger in size.
Fancy that.
I observed that I was in possession of something resembling that which he sought, and he could give it a try. I rummaged around in my Bag Of Tricks, retrieved my Posey key, and presented it to the officer. His eyes lit up, as he noted that this appeared to be just what he was looking for.
He returned, a couple of hours later, reporting that indeed, my key had unlocked the offending handcuffs, the child had been released, no property damage had occurred, and everything ended happily.
Contributing to my legend, of “If McFee doesn’t have it, You do not need it!”
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Tales of another reality. Reminiscences of my time in the sick people business, and random thoughts otherwise clinging to my attention, like a baby monkey on a weimaraner.
Musings of A Stretcher Ape 