Laugh It Off

I don't know if you've noticed but from time to time as we slog along in life, moments arise that make a lasting impression. 'There's one for the record books,' you say to yourself and you realize that the memory of it will come back to you at intervals down through the years. Sometimes, when your head is on the pillow and your thoughts are becoming soft and mellow, up pops the memory, banishing the Sandman, causing you to leap up with that familiar feeling that you're going to die in about two minutes.

One of those remembered moments occurred to me this morning. It was just as I was wakened by Beignet, the orange and white Ragamuffin, when he decided to lie on my face and all that fur clogging the respiratory system brought immediately to mind… well, on second thought, let's not dwell on it. Too morbid. The point is not the memory itself but the effect it had on the limbic system.

This summer has been one for the record books in its own way. The Genome is a sensitive fellow and, what with one thing and another, he's been filled to overflowing with the cortisols that cause depression. When I say overflowing, I mean that the stuff has been sloshing up against the tonsils like the incoming tide. I just don't have room for any more. Full up!

When the hippocampus retrieved the memory and displayed it on the big screen--I'm not so sure it wasn't in 3D--I leapt out of bed, crossed the room to stand in front of the window in what was for me the work of an instant. I was expecting the restorative of summer morning sunshine of course. No good. It's September 11--a cause for more dark memories but not the ones that were suffocating me at the moment. We are mid-month into an early autumn, the season of mists and fruitful mellowness, as Ms. Wonder puts it. The sunshine wouldn't reach the high hills behind Chadsford Hall for another 30 minutes.

What one needs in times like these, I don't need to tell you, is a higher power and I looked around for Ms. Wonder but the room, though well-equiped with the usual furnishings--one bed, two dressers, about a dozen cats, was noticeably absent of Wonders--Poopsie or otherwise.

What now? is what I asked myself.

Run faster! came the reply and it was delivered in a panicked tone of voice, if I can call it a voice. The words were made without benefit of sound waves because it came from the almond-shaped little cluster of brain cells that you may know as the amygdala but I call Princess Amy. "You've got to get away from those memories!" she said.

"Peace, Princess," I said, "be still. There's nothing to be afraid of. I can handle this."

"You?" she said. "You can't deal with something as simple as cat fur. What do you think you're going to do about it?"

It was a good question and I had to admit that she had a talking point about the cat fur. I didn't have a ready answer so I asked her to excuse me while I paced the hallway in thought. It wasn't pleasant in the hallway. Confining for one thing. For another, each time I got a good stride going, I came to the end of the hall and had to turn round and do it all over. Then, as so often happens, an unaffiliated thought led to a serendipitous one and everything changed for the better. Here in a nutshell is what happened.

First, it occurred to me that the office window faces the east and if there is to be sunshine, that's the first place to look for it. I removed myself to the office. Once there, I was surrounded by mountains of thoughts affiliated with my book, Out of the Blue. I'm sure you know what happened next. With that book in mind, all the power principles that make up fierce living presented themselves to me like the fruit in Ms. Wonder's early autumn. There you are then--power principles to keep the blues away. I immediately choose one and put it into action.

"Ha, ha, ha," I said.

"What's wrong with you?" said the princess.

"Hee, hee, hee," I repled.

"Have you dropped of the deep end?" she said.

"Ho, ho, ho," I said and was reminded of good ole St. Nick and all those delightful lies we were told as children. Then I began to laugh in earnest.

"You sound like one of those mad scientists that live in the dungeons of upstate New York castles," said the amygdala. "You should get to a doctor."

By now I felt great. I began to toss about cat toys and laughed just because I felt like it. Beignet and Sagi were doing figure eights at my shins. Abbie was looking at me in saucer-eyed amazement. Uma was racing back and forth from one room to another and Eddy was marching around as though he were in charge of it all.

Now I've come to the reason for this story. You may consider it a warning. If you are enjoying a good bout of deep blue depression and you want to keep it going for a while longer--you may be in a particularly creative mood or perhaps you're preparing for an interview on local radio--for goodness sake don't start laughing. Laughing, even if you don't feel like laughing, will lift you right out of the depths whether you want to be rescued or not.

Saving the Children

Several years ago I suffered from a disease that had plagued me for most of my life. When the symptoms began, they amounted to an annoying level of pain that I was able to pass off as an inconvenience. Over the years, the level of pain increased and sometimes kept me away from activities that I enjoyed.

I considered the affliction to be something specific to me, that I was defective in some way. I thought it was something I would just have to life with. In fact, one of the doctors treating me as a young man told me that the symptoms would get worse and that I’d just have to get used to it.

Then one day, I met a man who said that I didn’t have to live like that any more. He told me of his experience with the same symptoms and he told me that it was a medical condition that could be improved, if not cured completely.

Knowing that help was available changed my life. I sought that help immediately and it has made all the difference. The improvement in quality of my life is immeasurable and it is due entirely to one person making me aware that help was available.

 Georgio, the man who contributed time and expertise to get the plane air-worthy again in Athens.

There are thousands of children suffering from cancer today. St. Jude Children’s Hospital is saving children from some of the same types of cancer that take the lives of many. How many of those same children could be saved if only their parents or others in their communities knew about St. Jude Hospital.

Getting help from St. Jude Hospital doesn’t require that the patient be insured. It doesn’t depend on the family having lots of money. Getting help only depends upon the family knowing that help is available.

Consider the following:

• Families never receive a bill from St. Jude for treatment, travel, housing and food--because all a family should worry about is helping their child survive.

• Treatments invented at St. Jude have helped push the overall childhood cancer survival rate from 20 percent to more than 80 percent.

• St. Jude freely shares their medical breakthroughs with doctors and scientists worldwide so the knowledge can be used to save thousands more children.

• Because the of St. Jude funding comes from individual contributors, the doctors hae the freedom to focus on what matters most--saving kids regardless of their financial situation.

  

The flight crew of Flight For Life is circling the globe right now to get the message to as many people as they can reach. Their effort is getting media attention, sometimes local, sometimes national, and most of the people they talk to have never heard of St. Jude Children’s Hospital.

Flight For Life is getting the word out and that’s all it takes sometimes to change someone’s life in immeasurable ways. Each member of the crew is spending his own money to pay for the round-the-world flight. Your donations go to support the work of St. Jude Hospital and to make the services available to those children who so desperately need it.

Make your donation today at www.mricharitablefoundation.com. 

Flying With A Bent Whangee

"'Good Morning, Poopsie," I said as I entered the sal de ban. I didn't actually see her in all the billowing mist but Uma, the Empress of Chadsford Hall and Queen of Cats, was there on the side of the tub in all her tortoise-shelled glory, and I reasoned that if Uma is present, can Ms. Wonder be far behind.

"Good morning," said a disembodied voice from beyond the curtain of steam.

"What's it like out?" I said.

"Exceptionally clement," she said and I knew that it was going to be a good day if this Poopsie Wonder gave it a good review. A most amazing person, Ms. Wonder. So competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, having a partner like this P. Wonder makes a hell of a difference to a fellow's day.

"Your pilot friend…," she began.

"Bob?" I said.

"Right," she said. "Your pilot friend emailed some information about their flight around the world…"

"The Flight for Life," I said taking care to pronounce the capitals.

"Yes, Flight for Life," she said and I was impressed that she could not only pronounce capital letters but also did a passable job with the italics. "He said they've finished the second leg of the flight and are in Istanbul."

"Ah, Istanbul," I said. "You know Poopsie, I'm in love with the romance of Istanbul. I've never been there but have read so much about it that I feel if I were there, I wouldn't need a map to get around."

"We should go," she said.

"You know best," I said. "If they've arrived in Istanbul, that means they've left Amsterdam, of course. No way to get to Turkey without leaving Amsterdam. And I presume they've been through Paris, at least to stop at a drive-through or two, and then on to, well, on to wherever they've been--Athens, Milan, and Germany of course, although I don't have the exact itinerary in my head."

"They've had quite an exciting time of it," she said and something about the way she left it hanging assured me that there was more to the story.

"Do tell," I said.

"Well, for one thing, while flying to Normandy…" 

"Probably to buzz the bathers on the beaches," I interjected. "That would be a hoot wouldn't it?"

"I seriously doubt they are buzzing anybody," she said. "They strive, I'm sure, to remain focused on their objective."

"Spreading the good word about the work of St. Jude Children's Hospital you mean?"

"Of course," she said. "Members of the flight crew were interviewed on national television in Germany according to your friend..."

"Bob," I said. "Bob Bradley."

"And that kind of attention is paramount to increasing awareness world-wide of the services provided by St. Jude to children with cancer, regardless of a family's ability to pay. It's unheard of in most of the world," she said.

"Yes, you're right again, of course. Flying around the world may sound like a lot of fun on the surface but the Flight for Life crew is engaged in serious business. This isn't just one big adventure for them."

"Oh, they've had some adventure," she said. "They had to make an emergency landing because fuel was spilling from a wing tank."

"Poopsie," I said, "you must have gotten the facts mangled. I knew this was going to happen when you started eating so many salads. You've got to get back on a fish diet before the brain cells atrophy. Fuel doesn't just spill from tanks."

"They lost a fuel cap," she said. "And after landing, the only option they had was to empty the tank and move the fuel to another using a 25 litre jug."

"They didn't enjoy that," I said.

"No, but they expected to have a fuel cap waiting for them in Athens," she said.

"I'll keep my fingers crossed that the rest of the flight is uneventful, but you know how it is, Poopsie, one damned thing after another."

"Yeah, well Bob says that they have another problem now. One of the engines has a bent push rod."

I mused about this for a moment or two because it seemed to me that a bent rod of any sort, push or pull, deserves considerable attention."

"I suppose it's not such a big deal, since they have a spare engine, right?"

"Oh, it's still a problem."

I took a few moments to muse again. It seemed to me, considering this and that, and taking everything into account that these round-the-world flyers do live life to the fullest, if you get my meaning.

"Can't fly with a bent whangee, then?" I said.

"You can fly with one engine," she said, "but if the second engine freezes during takeoff, it could spell disaster."

"It could end up being a stinker you mean?" I said.

"If you're below a thousand feet or so," she said.

"Poopsie," I said, "you do know everything don't you? Admit it. Everything."

"You're sweet," she said, "but you know that's not true. Flying just happens to be a favorite topic of mine. I once took a course in aviation weather and one thing led to another. Remember the time I made aerial photographs of that corn maze from the open cockpit of a 1948 Piper Cub? That was a thrill."

"Say, Poopsie," I said, "I have a tip on a stock that's positioned for a 70% upside. Would you invest in a gold mine?"

"Can't advise it," she said. "The mining sector is not sanguine."

"Yes, I see what you mean. What was it my dad used to say--You can't roller skate with a bent whangee--us that what is was?  At any rate, keep the money in the old oak chest, then?"

"Why not make a donation," she said. "That way you would send some positive energy to the crew of Flight for Life and you would be helping children with cancer to hope for a better future."

"I see what you mean. Support Flight for Life and do some good for children who desperately need it."

"That's right," she said. "Your friend, Bob, says that spreading awareness of St. Jude and the work they do is as important as raising money to pay for the work--still, the money is needed. So, why not make a donation now."

I wasted no time. It was for me the work of an instant to log onto MRI Charitable Foundation and make a contribution. You can do the same.

Flight for Life

"Poopsie," I said, as I entered the sal de ban and waved away the clouds of steam billowing from the tub, "do you know what keeps an airplane in the air?"

"That's a question that flight engineers continue to debate isn't it," she said, "or have you read something recently about a consensus opinion?"

You are familiar by now with the special sense of humor this P. Wonder wields and so I'm sure you aren't surprised by her response. It's something she inherited from her Slavic ancestors, I'm sure of it. Looking for the humor in the situation probably helped them get through those long winter nights when the wolves were threatening to huff and puff and all that other unpleasantness. I admit this gag got right next to me and I laughed out loud.

"That's a good one," I said. "Consensus opinion! But what I'm referring to is the air beneath the wings. And I think that's a perfect metaphor for the people supporting the Flight for Life project. They, and I refer to those making donations to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, are the air beneath the wings of the Piper Aztec making its way around the world to bring attention to the hospital and the services it provides to children with cancer."

"And St. Jude's," she said, "is the wind beneath the wings of those children in their time of need."

I didn't immediately respond, being caught up in thoughts of just how true her words were. I was reminded of the many times in my life when I was hopeless, which is about every other day, and someone came along to help asking nothing in return. St. Jude's is like that. No family need pay for the help they provide the children. Incredible when you think about it.

"Are they back in the air?" she said and by they she meant the crew of Flight for Life--not St. Jude hospital.

"Still in Amsterdam, taking a well deserved break after flying from North Carolina to Greenland and then to Iceland and then to the continent," I said giving her the summary of the first leg. "Do you realize, Poopsie, that only 120 people have made this flight in a plane classified as "light aircraft?" And these guys are the first to do it to raise money to help children in need."

"Where are they headed next?"

"I'm not really certain," I said. "but the last time I spoke to Bob, the co-pilot, he hinted they will fly through western Europe--France, Spain, all the usual suspects, and then they will stop in Ankara before beginning the third leg of the trip. They will stop along the way, of course, to meet with well-wishers who want to get a photo with the team and the plane. I wish I'd done that."

"Maybe you can meet them when they return to Roxboro," she said.

"I have a better idea," I said. "I think I'll meet them in Southeast Asia somewhere. If I'm lucky, I can get short flight in the plane."

"I don't think so," she said.

I didn't expect her to turn cartwheels at the idea of my taking a little jaunt around the globe but I did expect her to rally round the flag just a little.

"Why not?" I said.

"Because you're not going if I'm not going and I'm not able to leave the office right now."

I was dashed! This was so unlike the woman I count as my number one fan. I could make nothing of it other than recognizing that sometimes life sneaks up very quietly, keeping to the shadows, and then when it catches you with your guard down, it tears off the whiskers and pounces. This time was one of those times.

Still Anonymous After All This Time

"What's that noise?" asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness. I opened my eyes thinking I was in the slot canyon I told you about--the one in Escalante in Utah. You remember that I saw the puma's paw print in the dust there. But I wasn't in the canyon this morning. I was in my bedroom and the voice belonged to Feldspar, the rock troll, or perhaps I was dreaming that he was sleeping on the bedroom floor waiting to be reunited with his native dimension.

"That's just Sagi," I said; or did I think it?

"Sagi?"

"He's shredding a roll of toilet paper," I said.

"Shredding toilet tissue?" he said.

"Tissue or paper," I said, "both are correct."

"Why?" he said.

"There you have me in deep waters, I'm afraid, but it's a favorite pastime," I said.

"Habitual?" he said.

"He finds it hard to resist but he swears he can stop anytime he chooses," I said.

"That's what they all say," he said.

"Well, nothing to do about it but wait for him to hit bottom," I said.

The conversation led from one topic to another as conversations do in the hours leading up to dawn. These desultory talks are dangerous places for me when my brain is just starting and the spark plugs are firing in random order. I felt the need to be outside so I hastily pulled on the outer crust and hied for the crepe myrtle glen. A bit of mindfulness hits the spot when the entire week has been nothing but one damn thing after another.

In the early morning stillness beneath the morning star and buoyed up by aromatic pine straw, I was serenaded by a mockingbird singing a selection of Frank Sinatra melodies. In the middle of "I've Got You Under My Skin," the dawn bloomed in all her South Durham rosiness and soon the sun was visible, hot-dogging in the heavens. His antics gave an iridescent glow to the edges of the leaves on the crepe myrtles. It was a mood lifter.

You may have read accounts of near-death experiences. If you have, then you're familiar with the reports of being surrounded and possibly buoyed up by a light of indescribable beauty. That's how I felt. Had Ms. Wonder been with me at the time, not that she is ever with me before 8:00 AM, having wisely concluded that since most heart attacks occur before that hour, I consider it prudent to stay in bed until the danger is past. But as I say, if she had been with me, I would have said, "I've got a feeling, everything's going my way!" I said it anyway.

I suddenly felt the urge to begin a brisk walk in the sunlight and remembered a quote from Shakespeare, some little gag from one of those plays you read in high school, if they still read Shakespeare in high school, "If something is worth doing, don't waste time thinking about it, just heave into it." I'm paraphrasing.

The walk worked its wonder and for several minutes I was caught up in all the beautiful ephemera of life. This kind of thinking is something that drives Princess Amy manic, her job being to spot danger and assign the yellow, orange, or red codes to the day. You remember Amy, of course, my own personal collection of almond-shaped neurons in the middle of my head. She made her best effort to turn my light, fluffy cumulus musings into the fret-edged stratus variety, but I saw through her plan right away.

Amy and I have danced around the block more than a few times. She works tirelessly to distract me and give the mean-spirited aunts of the universe an opening to sock me with a cosh behind the ear. Success does not come easy even without her monkey wrenches and who can say why really? It could be that the path deviates from the dotted line connecting A to B or it could be that life is simply difficult. I'm inclined to believe the latter. Scott Peck and the Buddhists agree with me on this. 

The point in all this is that Amy is intent on derailing the completion of my book, Out of the Blue. She'd laid her plans out accordingly and I might have stepped on the banana peel she'd placed in my path. Fortunately, having arrived at the northernmost edge of Chatsford Village, I turned and noticed far across the swale, up the terraced hillside, and beyond the ha ha, my six-cylindered, front-wheel driven charger, waiting to answer my whistle. The sight of her reminded me of all the road trips we'd taken in the bright sunshine and in the gentle rain and it was as though I were standing in that before-mentioned indescribably beautiful light once more.

I raised my arm in salute and said to the morning air, "Good morning, Wynd Horse!" Now I know you're going to find it difficult to credit this but if you've followed this blog for a few turns of the moon, then surely you know that I do not mislead my audience. Not intentionally. And I'm not misleading you now when I say that no sooner had I greeted her than she responded with "Toot, toot!" 

That's right; all one her own. It's little things like that in life that make all the difference, don't you think so?