"What a sigh is there. The heart is sorely charged." (Macbeth)

.....Yesterday, I had two appointments at the VA Hospital in West Palm Beach. Firstly, I decided to put my scooter on the lift attached to my car and use it there because my cane would simply not do for the kind of walking distances that  would be required . Secondly, I also determined to leave early enough so that I might be fortunate to get a parking space, always in very short supply at that facility.  Additionally, I needed to leave early so as not to miss my first appointment; sometimes an accident on the Florida Tpk. slows traffic to a crawl.  I did get there in plenty of time for my 11 a.m. appointment for an ultra sound procedure on my kidneys which my urologist wanted to see.  I did finally get a space to park my car--but it was in a space that was not really a space--if you get my meaning.  I lowered the lift and drove off in the scooter, which to tell the truth, was really a helpful aid--and also a little fun.  When my appointment time came I went to the place where I thought the ultra sound would be given, but the nurse sent me to a different location.  Thus, I scooted over there and when I checked in, the nurse asked if I had drunk 32 ounces of water!  No! I told her; no one told me I had to drink 32 ounces of water!  She also added (almost joyfully) that I had to feel the need to pee "uncomfortable."  I remarked that it would not be possible to drive for 40 minutes in that condition.  At any rate, I made another appointment and I will find a way to drink 32 ounces of water.  If it was my son, Bobby, 32 ounces of beer would just be a start for him.    

.....It was now about 11:15 and my next appointment was in a different building the whole of which was for PTSD patients.  Since I wasn't scheduled there until 1p.m., I had plenty of time to have some breakfast.  In the main lobby a Starbuck's "cafe" always had a delicious apple turnover, so I went there, bought it and then scooted over to the main cafeteria where I purchased a cup of coffee.  (I will continue with this monologue because, after all, this is my "journal" and I would be remiss if I did not recount the events of this day.) When I finished the uneventful appointment at the PTSD clinic, I drove over to the Emergency Room.  For two or three days I had a painful pain in my chest and I promised RH+ that I would have it taken care of.  Of course, the first thing done there was to have me take off my shirt and shoes and get into a bed surrounded by a curtain.  And to make this account as painless as possible, they gave me an EKG, a blood test, and an X-Ray and found nothing that could be heart related.  However, the doctor there told me he would like to have me admitted so that he could conduct a stress test in the morning.  I told him that there was no way that I could stay in that hospital overnight so far away from Delray.  Therefore he had me sign a release; which I did.  I dressed, got out of there, got in my car and drove home.  

.....I still have that pain in my chest, but the consensus is that it is a possible muscle pull contracted while lifting heavy luggage into the car on the way to the airport when we went to NY.  Consequently, I may never go to New York again.

"Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest." (Homer)

.....So, there went my 86th Thanksgiving in a row for a new record.  Rho and I joined our neighbors, Lou and Annette for Thanksgiving dinner at a local Greek diner--one we usually don't frequent, and much to our surprise our traditional turkey dinner with all the trimmings was excellent.  The turkey was right off the frame, the stuffing was delicious, the baked potato was large and just the right texture, the cole slaw was tasty and the diet coke was thirst quenching.  And now I have to get into practice for number 87 in one year's time.  

.....Yesterday, about 7:oo a.m. the phone rang as we were sleeping in our queen sized bed and it wakened and alarmed both of us.  (I mention "queen" size bed because my ex and I had to share a "double" bed for much of our marriage.) Well, to continue the story, at the other end of the phone line was Jackie Schillig on her cell and about to board a plane for Ft. Lauderdale from D.C.  One day in 1973, Jackie came into my English classroom and announced that she had been assigned to me as a student teacher.  Ordinarily I wouldn't want to be bothered, but Jackie was gorgeous, and stirred my benevolent genes.  Now, that was 37 years ago, and we have remained close friends since then even though time and distance have kept us apart.  Jackie was an excellent student teacher and she went on to a great teaching career on her own.  Jackie became very close also with all of my family, and especially so with Bobby and Robin.  

.....Jackie was in town to attend her friend's wedding and she asked if she could come up to see us for a few hours.  It was about 11:30 a.m. when she called from Publix, our supermarket, and asked if there was anything she could bring us that we may have needed--like a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, or a carton of water bottles.  We assured Jackie that we were not living in poverty, and to get her ass up to our apartment so that we could all go out to get something to eat.  Which event shortly happened.  When we returned from the local bagel & lox emporium, we spent a couple of hours chatting and reminiscing.  I gave her a copy of my autobiography and a copy of "Paternoster in Condoland Vol.I", my blog--or as I like to consider it, the journal of my life here since 2007 when I first started to write it.

.....Jackie's visit was wholeheartedly welcomed, and to continue with no shortage of visiting guests, we will be joining my cousin, Gary, from Chicago at Maggiano's this evening along with his daughter, Michelle, and her husband, Yoniv.  I certain that even they don't read my blog, along with Jackie, and I am sure they couldn't care less about this shameless omission in their mundane existences.

"And we shall never meet the Twain" (NRR)

…..Yesterday, Time Magazine had an article about Mark Twain’s new unexpurgated memoir, “Autobiography of Mark Twain,”  at the No.2 spot on the New York Time’s best seller list.  I did not know that he had written his memoirs and I was honored to think that we both had written one—although his memoirs are published in three volumes with just the first one 744 pages compared to my 375.  It’s hard to believe that he did three times as many things to write about as I did.  He also hired a stenographer to get his words down on paper, while I had the advantage of my computer, which I did not have to dictate to.  (And hopefully I will be forgiven for ending a sentence with a preposition. Winston Churchill, when told not to end a sentence with a preposition, replied, “This is the kind of arrant nonsense up with which I will not put!”)  At his death on April 21, 1910 he stipulated that his memoir was not to be published fully for 100 years while I published mine as quickly as I was able to after it was finished. According to the article, Twain was concerned that he had “unchained” himself and that the book would be too full of acidic opinions against the “follies and wickedness of his times.”  These included his rantings against the institution of slavery, the gluttony of the age, and the Spanish-American War. He described the American soldiers in the Philippines as uniformed assassins. He also fulminated against the criminal malfeasance of the business world.  Because of these views, it is needless to say his popularity in the polls would not be something to be proud of.

…..According to Mark Twain, because of the many indelicate views he voiced, he opted to “speak from the grave” .Right from a page of his manuscript (in TIME) I was able to decipher his writing and he had this to say: “I speak from the grave rather than with my living tongue, for a good reason; I can speak freely.  When a man is writing a book which is to be read while he is still alive—he shrinks from speaking his whole, frank mind; all his attempts to do it fail; he recognizes that he trying to do a thing which is wholly impossible to a human being.  The frankest and privatest product of the human mind & heart is a love letter…”  Ah, ain't that the truth!

….And  I found Twain's views to be true while I was writing my memoirs.  Indeed, I neglected to write all my frank views about people, the times I was living in, and life in general.  I also did not think about the idea of having my book published 100 years after my death so I, too, would be “speaking from the grave”.  The probability is that the book would never be published and that my manuscript would gather dust in someone’s attic.  Who knows whose?  I also did not write my memoir as Twain suggested a memoir ought to be written; and that is, the writer should not be concerned about time lines, but that he should promote his ideas and his memories in any order that they occur to him.  Hmmmmm.  That would have been a help to me; there are many memories I have had since I published my memoirs that I didn’t recall while writing it.  Also, Mark Twain used that as his pen name; he was born Samuel Clemens.  I forgot to use my pen name, the Baron.  It’s too late now.  Besides, I couldn’t come close to 744 pages and then two volumes after that.  I really shouldn’t complain—I just got a check of $33.99 for royalties!  Twain is not going to collect anything, being that he is in the grave.  At least I am financially better off than he.