Entertaining Stories

Welcome to another edition of Lisa Burton Radio, I’m your host, Lisa the robot girl, and my guest today has a very important job. In America we would say he’s a stuffed animal, in other places they would refer to him as a plush toy. “Welcome to the show, White Bear.”

“Hi, Lisa. It’s a pleasure to be here. Thanks so much for choosing me to be your first stuffed animal interview!”

“Pleasure to have you. You’re best friends with someone named Angel. How did you two come to meet?”

“As far as I know, before meeting Angel, I lived always lived in a doctor’s office at Shriner’s Hospital in Tampa, Florida. I spent most of my time at the computer doing research or hanging out on a bookshelf. Lots of kids came in and out of that office, but they never paid any attention to me. One day, a…

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The End

I played the clarinet from third grade all the way through college. In high school, I was in the marching band.  I marched in parades and on the football field and played at pep rallies and football games in the heat, the rain and the snow. I wore a cool uniform, an even cooler hat, and had a lot of fun.  I never learned much about football though.  I didn’t understand the intricacies.  I was a hockey girl, still am.

So when I decided to watch Friday Night Lights, I figured I would last two or three episodes and then search for the next great thing to watch.  After four or five episodes I thought, well, I don’t really care about football, but I am starting to get attached to the characters.  By season two, the characters were as real as any I had fallen for before.

By season Five, I had a new found respect for the game, but a sinking feeling that the show was about to end.  So I checked with google.  How many seasons for Friday Night Lights? Five.

So here I am again, where most binge watching TV show fans are.  The show is about to end and I am losing another group of people who have somehow become real to me.  I am going to miss one of the happiest married couples on series TV. I am going to miss, the kids, because there is so much left unsaid for some of them.  I am even going to miss the games. So what’s next? Will there be another good show?

The answer to that is, yes.  There is a lot of quality writing out there, a lot of quality acting, and a lot of good shows.  So glad I gave up cable and only watch Netflix.  Gives me a chance to really appreciate the talent out there.

“Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can’t Lose” – Coach Taylor

I wonder if my sisters have watched this one yet.  Knowing Lisa she is still watching Gray’s Anatomy, again.

And me? Well, who knew that football could make me cry?

 

thebluemoment.com

Counter culture 2I’m looking at some 50-year-old cuttings from a morning newspaper called the Nottingham Guardian Journal. The first of them is dated Saturday, May 13, 1967. It’s from a page called The Younger Set, containing pieces on fashion and music. The reviews include Hendrix’s “The Wind Cries Mary” (“magnificent… the most creative musician in Britain today”) and Percy Sledge’s “Out of Left Field” (“reaffirms my faith in soul music”). A week later we have the Doors’ debut album (“a very cool, tight sound”), Jefferson Airplane’s “Somebody to Love” (“a very mind-blowing cut from from one of the leading new-wave groups”) and, er, Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich (“completely moronic”).

The Guardian Journal died in 1973 and is remembered only for having been the place where Graham Greene learned the craft of sub-editing before leaving for London to join The Times. And in 1967 it carried these reviews, along with others of The Velvet Underground…

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Gardenias, my mother’s favorite flower

After a heart attack, mitral valve damage, a second myocardial infarction and ICD implant, my mother was finally transferred from a smaller hospital in Clearwater, Florida to Tampa General Hospital. I remember waiting in the ICU waiting room for the helicopter to land and have my mom settled into a room where she would receive the advanced care she needed.  Unfortunately,  my mother’s condition deteriorated rapidly, something I could never have predicted. Her only chance of long term survival was a heart transplant.

 

It was August of 2000 when this happened. Dr. C from the transplant team came into the room to interview my mom.  I have known him since 1989.  I can’t remember if my sisters or my dad were in the room with me.  Memories are like that, some parts of a story are vivid and some are not.

“Dolores, has anything stressful happened to you in the last year?” he asked.

“Yes, my mother died,” she said.

“Mom, what are you talking about? That happened a year ago,” I said, words that have haunted me every since, words that can never be taken back and words that were not only insensitive but incredibly naïve.

I can no longer remember the exact time line of what happened in the next twelve hours.  My mother coded, and luckily my boss and best friend was the cardiologist in the room with her.  She survived and we were all able to go into the room to see her before the surgeon on call was going to perform urgent mitral valve replacement.  She wasn’t really awake, but the doctor was able to rouse her long enough to ask her if she recognized who was in the room with her.

“Yes, Fleischman,” she said. She often called him by our last name.

There were other things said before the code, but I only remember very few.  She said she had to get home to take care of something, but we never found out what it was. She also said she didn’t want to die on my nieces birthday.

I said, “Mom, you aren’t going to die.”

I didn’t say, “I love you.” I didn’t tell her all the things I should have been telling her since I had become a parent and realized that my mother must have loved me as much as I loved my son.  To be fair, we were not a very demonstrative family. We never kissed our parents good night or held hands.

She was wheeled into surgery and we were absolutely sure she would survive.  Hours into the night we waited.  My mother did survive the initial valve replacement, but as they were closing her, she began to bleed. They did another valve replacement, but my mother was not strong enough to survive.  We never got to talk to her again.

Seventeen years have gone by. My child is grown and is a parent now.  My nieces and nephews are grown.  Angel never got to meet her and neither did my granddaughter.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. Every time I am with my sisters a mommy story is told.  Mostly we talk about her like we saw her yesterday.  She visits me in my dreams and we can often feel her presence in my dad’s house.

Almost everything in my dad’s house is the way my mom left it.  When I am there I am comforted by the fact that my dad knows we love him and he knows we loved her, even if we didn’t show it and often didn’t act like it.

I often think about how she lost her father when she was only 19.  She married shortly after and raised a family without her dad.  We didn’t talk about it much.  After I lost her I realized she must have thought about him every day.  She carried on with strength and dignity and so do I.  Crying is left for the shower or long solo car rides.  I bet that is what she did, too.

So tomorrow is Mother’s Day again.  We don’t really celebrate because we don’t have our mom anymore.  Even though I am a mother and grandmother, the holiday was never about me. It was about my mom.

She lost her mother a year ago, she said. Yes, mom, you were right and I am so sorry I didn’t know.

Serendipity is good luck in finding valuable things unintentionally. . . examples of serendipity have an important characteristic: they were made by individuals able to “see bridges where others saw holes” and connect events creatively, based on the perception of a significant link,” Wikipedia.org One day, while searching the internet, I came across The White Spirit […]

via The Serendipity of White Bear, the Spirit Bear and Grandma Tess — Marie Cheine