Green Chiles (again)

The other Chile fest we attended, the one in the City, was in a big field next to the Albuquerque Balloon Museum, or, more precisely the Anderson-Abruzzo Albuquerque International Balloon Museum. More on that later. For now, suffice to say that New Mexicans are also in love with balloons.

Anyway, once more we parked and paid a fee (bit more stiff this time, but it included entrance to the museum). Once more we entered and threaded our way through tables and tents.

It was pleasant enough, but there were fewer vendors of food…something of a problem since we'd thought we would have lunch there. Still, there was much to be seen. Again, there were vendors of sauce and toppings, whole roasted Chiles, jewelry…and (one major difference from the Las Lunas gathering) beer. Several local microbrewers were on hand to offer their wares.

I am not quite sure it was good idea (all those people and all that beer), but it did cool the tongue after one too many visits to the hot sauce samples.


*

We exited through the Museum. As I say, New Mexicans are crazy about balloons. In the Museum itself you may see all manor of historical balloons, or, at least, their gondolas, suspended from the ceilings on long cables…as though they still dangled from their gas bags.  And so, here you may see the Double Eagle II, the balloon which first crossed the Atlantic, and the Double Eagle V, which managed similar flight across the Pacific.

Impressive, really. The gondolas are relatively tiny. One wonders what it was like to be confined in them for day upon day, drifting with winds which you my exploit but cannot control, hoping that you will not tumble into ruin and death and white capped waves at any moment.

I suppose it requires that one be a sort of hero to manage that. You must be brave, verging on the fearless, and daring! You must be willing to risk it all on a single toss, telling yourself it will be seven and not snake eyes.

I could never be that sort of individual.

But, then, I suppose I don't want to be. If I must be heroic, and I don't suppose I ever will, then I would prefer it to be in some sort of service…doing something…for someone. For many someones.

Perhaps that means I am a lesser man.

So be it.

Oh, my God, I'm famous...sort of.

Well, it seems I've been quoted.

Way back in 1994, I wrote the following line in my ezine, explosive-cargo:

"If the Anti-Abortion Movement took a tenth of the energy they put into noisy theatrics and devoted it to improving the lives of children who have been into lives of poverty, violence, and neglect, they could make the world a'shine."

(I've also seen it reproduced on the web as "...make the world shine.")

But, anyway, someone just pointed out to me that it's been included in William Martin's recent book of liberal quotes, Quotes from the Underground: Radical Wisdom in Small Doses.

In a word, wow. Far freaking out.

Thanks Dr. Martin.

Green Chiles (3)

The Green Chile is so central to New Mexican cuisine that it is celebrated. We've been to two "Green Chile Festivals" since we got to town. One was in Las Lunas, which is a community some miles south of the city. The other was here in Albuquerque, but I will get to that second in another Xcargo.

The Los Lunas one was first. We had seen posters of it somewhere, and Martha said, "Why not?" So, one Saturday, we got into my little truck and headed down I-25…past the airport, past Isleta Pueblo (Indian land. Which means it has its own casino, now. Like every reservation in the state), and finally to Los Lunas.

We took a designated exit and followed signs. We came finally to Wagner's Farmland, which is both a working farm and a sort of local attraction. People bring their children. There's a petting zoo. A maze in a cornfield. Hayrides. And so on.

One huge field had been turned into a parking lot. Teenagers with little red flags guided us into through muddy roads—one of which we actually got stuck in. The tires were rolling merrily and going nowhere. I took it as a metaphor for my life. But, then, by dint of pulling, pushing, and some swearing, we got traction.

From there we followed the crowds to a fenced-in area. We paid a small fee, were given green paper bracelets to wear, and then entered. Around us were tents and tables, vendors and providers of free information about this or that service. There was live music from a stage.

We wandered. It was smaller than I thought it would be. But, Martha clearly loved it. Her camera was busy.

We ate enchiladas with, of course, Green Chile.  Then we toured the tents. Jewelry and jars of Chile sauce, handmade clothes and carved wood statues, brochures from this or that organization…

Oh, and then we got a free plastic cup from the New Mexico Chile Association. It sits now on the table beside me. I use it for water.

Then…

It was done. We went into Los Lunas, found a Starbucks, and with iced decaf Americanos, went our way again.

I wondered vaguely where the day had gone.

More on Green Chilies…(or chiles)

Before you can eat them, they must be roasted. You can do this at home in your oven, but it is a lot of effort and instead most people buy them from some store or enterprise that has a commercial roaster. This is a device that looks sort of like a large, perforated drum into which the chiles are placed. Then the drum rotates slowly over an open flame—in the old days, charcoal or wood, today usually propane.

In recent years, this has become something of a growth industry. At harvest time, in October, many of the local grocery stores will install a roaster right outside their doors, on the walk or even in the parking lot. Thus you cannot go in or out, even on so minor a mission as to pick up that carton of milk or loaf of bread, without being tempted.

What does it smell like? Hard to say, exactly. Pleasant, and decidedly organic, but not familiar. I suppose you could say it has some resemblance to the scent of grilling vegetables, but not a whole lot.

I will say this. It is a strong scent. It carries far. You can't miss it. And I've heard stories (maybe apocryphal, but still amusing) of overeager authorities sniffing what they thought was the bust of all busts, bursting into a backyard or a tailgate party, and finding…startled suburbanites, standing around a roaster, wondering what all the fuss and bother is about.

Green Chile (1)

Things about New Mexico…

The green chiles. New Mexicans are crazy about green chiles. They love them. They love them green, they love them red, and they love them "Christmas," meaning a mix of the two.

They are a standard of cooking in the northern Rio Grande and beyond. And a word, these are Green Chiles, which are long and slightly curved. They are not to be confused with other chiles, which have quite different tastes. It can particularly confusing since as you move south into Texas or west in Arizona, the Green Chile gradually gives way to the jalapeño, which locals also sometimes call a "green" chile (it's green after all).

But for New Mexicans there will always been one chile and one chile only, the Green Chile, which (or so I'm told by Wikipedia) is also the state's single largest agricultural crop.  It is central to their cuisine, and, maybe, if one believes some historians and sociologists of food, is thus central to their personalities.

*

They put it on, in, or over everything. They chop it fine and put it on meat (like the burgers) or over certain vegetables, or even eggs. There is a thing called "breakfast burrito" that must be experienced. You take a flour tortilla, fill it with scrambled eggs, potatoes, and cheese, then you roll it up and top it with green chile. I've seen easternerscringe at the sight of it. But, try it once or twice, and you're addicted.

Another favorite, Green Chile Stew. It consists of Chile, potatoes, meat (pork or chicken as a rule, though there are vegetarian variants) served in a bowl. Quite amazing, really. I could, I think, live on it alone. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Though my very, very best beloved Green Chile dish is something called a "Chile Relleno," or, more precisely, the New Mexican version of a Relleno (the Mexican original uses the poblano pepper rather than the Green). You take a whole Green Chile, empty it of seeds, fill it with cheese, dip it in batter, and cook it rather like a fish. Again, it is amazing. (In fact, truth be told, I'm sitting here salivating at the thought of it.)

But, as I've implied, the Relleno is somewhat unusual in that it employs the whole Green Chile. Far more often, the Chile is chopped or sliced or otherwise made smaller and then placed on other foods.

And what foods! I've mentioned eggs and burgers. Add to them enchiladas and burritos and chimichangas and quesadillas and tamales and taquitos and a thousand other things whose names lay upon the tongue with a certain poetry… compelling, romantic, the music of the oven and the kitchen and that moment on a Christmas morning when you are (for once, so rare thing) almost content. Able to forget your thousand, thousand faults, the things which disgrace you. The things which make you wish for death. For just a moment, for a second…

They are gone.


*

Oh, two asides: Yes, there is such a thing as Chile-flavored wine. I've tried it. Not bad. And yes, too, there is green chile ice cream. That, I've never eaten. Someday, though…when I'm feeling strong.

Arrival

And then here is arrival…

Envision it as follows: she is driving the car. You are in your little truck. Because her sense of direction is better (you have a tendency to dream behind the wheel, to think of other things, and so miss exits), she leads the way. Even though she has never taken this route before.

And as you drive, you consider. How long has it been since you've come this way? Along 40 from the east? It is the ancient Route 66, celebrated in song and story.

Could it be forty years? Quite likely.

In any case, you drive. You have driven across the Texas border, through the uplands, the grasslands, the little towns, the small cities…some with fabulous names, evocative, exotic, and strange. Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, Clines Corners, Wagon Wheel, Moriarty…

And then just past Sedillo the road begins its winding way into the mountains, or rather the pass…Tijeras Canyon …that notch that lies between the Sandias and the Manzanita Mountains. Somehow, because you are busy driving, busy watching, particularly if it is dusk and you are tired, you do not notice that great gray and tree-covered mountain walls…almost cliffs going up around you. You don't notice until suddenly, least expected, they are everywhere…

Perhaps you notice the town … the town of Tijeras, itself…vest-pocket city, long and lean, its buildings and houses and the giant cement works between hilltops and mountain face…valley town, two-dimensional community, extending East and West, but there is no South nor North…

And then you are at the top. You arc over a mountain. And…

The city. Albuquerque.

It is best at night because then you see the lights stretching before you, below you, a vast field of neon and gems and incandescent street lamps, stretching from the shadows at your feet to the opposite horizon. (When you were a boy, when your parents took you driving at night, you would pretend you were a city in the sea, at the bottom of the ocean, or the dark side of the moon, and you were in a descending vehicle, submarine or lunar lander.)

But even in the daytime, or at the interface between afternoon and dusk, there is a certain magic in it, as you descend from the mountain and find yourself on a highway. You and she had hoped to stop just outside the city to regroup but she does not see the turnoff for Tramway Boulevard and so you follow her to Eubank.

She exits there and then pulls off at the first sign she sees that reads Café. She thinks you will be able to get coffee before you travel on to your father's house. You follow her into the parking lot. It is, you realize, The Owl Café. White building. Huge windows. And on the roof…an image. A statue. At first you think it is a cat. But then you realize it is an Owl. The Owl from the name. A huge owl's head, wide-eyed, beaked, great horned…

You stand in the parking lot for a minute. Then you walk to her as she emerges from her car. You embrace. You have made it.

You go into the Owl Café. You will discover, over time (because you will go back), that the coffee is…all right.

But the green chile burgers?

To die for.

Happy Holidays

I hope you had a merry Christmas, or whatever it is you celebrate.

Winds

I return, now, to talking about the trip here…that is, from Massachusetts to New Mexico.

*

Other scenes: moving through Kansas and Texas and encountering vast wind-farms—hundred of huge white turbines on towering masts, their blades rotating slowly or quickly in the wind.

I am told that they are not as innocent as some activists would have us believe. They are, after all, enormous constructions, taller than most buildings. And their turbine blades are vast. I'm further told they are a threat to birds and wildlife, and, under certain conditions (during storms, for example), to humans.

Yet, one thing is undeniable: their fabulous beauty…vast yet graceful, reed slender yet mighty.

Perhaps we need such things, even with their hazards, if such hazards truly exist. They remind us that nothing is unmixed. Loveliness is genuine, but it comes with a cutting edge…concealed or revealed…

And to know it, even briefly, is to know that, sooner or later, you will be bleeding.

Bleeding, but there's the rub of course. You will be back.

And you know it.

Of Sandy and Presidents

I haven't been posting here much for the last couple of months. There are several reasons for that. For one thing, I'm in the midst of a couple of very big projects and they are consuming almost all my time. For another, there have been so many important things going on the world—-first superstorm Sandy and then the election—-that my own little observations seemed almost fantastically unimportant…even ridiculous.

But, I can't help tooting my own horn just a wee bit. You'll recall that in my last entry I wrote about climate change requiring an interventionist government.

Well, in some ways I think that's exactly what a majority of the American voters decided in the 2012 presidential contest. They saw Sandy…the world's most horrific campaign volunteer…in all its hideous fury. They saw FEMA and the rest of the Federal government reacting with amazing speed to deal with the storm's destruction. And, maybe most of all, they saw Chris Christie and President Obama side by side…like a pair of titans…working to restore New Jersey to the living.

(Those amazing photos of the two men, burying their differences to do real good, may have won the election for the President all by themselves. And, of course, whatever the photos left undone, Christie's praise of his new friend and partner finished.)

I think a lot of people saw all that and wondered…would a government headed by Romney, and controlled by ideologues opposed to federal intervention on any level have done the same?

Thus, if I did not call the election, I think I identified one of the mechanisms that determined the winner. It is a small triumph, but these days I'll take anything I can get.

More on the pundit…

As I drove away, I wondered if the pundit, in all his erudite cynicism, really understood the implication of his statement. If climate change is happening, and if we have no choice but to "get used to it," well, that is going to require a lot of effort, time, and money on the part of a lot of people. In fact, it is probably going to require considerable government spending.

Or to put it another way, my pundit, in all his libertarian logic, was in fact arguing for the very sort of government—activist, regulatory, a welfare-state—which he has built a career out of opposing.

Other memories...

Other memories, mostly confused: searching for motels and hotels that were "pet friendly" Oreo, our dog, you see), searching for restaurants with patios and al fresco dining (the dog under the table with a bowl of water and a snack, us up above wilting in the sun), generally not finding such restaurants and so picnicking along the way in the shade of a tree or a dumpster.

Meeting remarkable people: the farmer/used car dealer who let us eat lunch on his property, the enormous bearded biker in black leather who took a great liking to Oreo and told us how wonderful, kind and loyal is that marvelous beast the dog. Better than humans. Who will betray you to your enemies. Or the law.

Enormous storms: lightning blasts from the highest of the high right down to the ground at your feet, black rolling clouds which (at one point) turned into the dreaded funnel and did some real damage in the town we had just left.

And heat. Heat. The great shimmering terrible heat of the drought.

*

Moving through Kansas was fascinating and terrible. The summer of 2012 was a summer of drought. You would drive through fields and fields of corn…blasted dead, withered, leaves brown and wrinkled as parchment. It was hard for the farmers. It will be hard for many others in terms of higher prices for food.

In one little town we stopped for lunch. Again, we couldn't find a place to eat where we could take the dog. But there was a little park, sort of in the very center of the community. We got sandwiches at a Subway, took out our folding chairs, and ate outdoors.

I say it was a "park," but envision nothing green. Nothing verdant or living. The grass was brown and dry. It was even brittle, for lack of a better word. You could touch it and it would not spring back.

Then, to add a touch of biblical plague to the scene, there were huge grasshoppers everywhere. Great horned locusts, like something out of Exodus. You would move or take a step and they would bound off in every direction, startling the dog who would try to pursue them, then fall back confused and maybe even a little afraid.

We ate our lunches and left.

I remember this incident clearly because shortly before it happened I'd heard on the radio that a certain and intelligent Right-Wing pundit had apparently said something along the lines of, "Global Warming is happening. Get used to it."

It was an interesting remark. It conceded that climate change is underway, yet did not extend the cause for that to human activities. Further, rather by implication, it suggested that even if climate change were due to the combustion of fossil fuels, well, that was the price for the modern world.

There may be something to the idea, I don't know.

And yet…

It did strike me as I looked out upon the brown waste that it is easy to say such things when you are sitting in an air-conditioned office, knowing that a chill drink is only a short walk to the fridge away, and knowing too that you are wealthy enough to afford significant increases in your food budget.

The rest of us… that's a different story.

About UVA

…it is one of the few colleges in America I've seen that genuinely has a touch of Oxford to it. Most of our schools do not have that…not even Harvard and Yale, both of which tried so hard to be our national equivalent, our place of spires and Thames, medievalism and brick, gowned scholars and merry undergrads in straw hats gone punting…

But Yale, Harvard, others…they never quite got it. For all their struggles, they became simply urban schools. Oh, excellent schools of course, full of brains and ambition. But city universities all the same.

And the merry undergrads? The scholars in black robes? They grow more rare with every passing day. Replaced, you see, by striving careerists, professionalists, specialists… heads full of facts and performance enhancing drugs (Nootropics, I think the word is)… for whom the concepts of merriment and medievalism, let alone punting, seem genuinely ridiculous.

These others, these new men and women, they are what society says it values. They will succeed. They will go far.

But, I wonder, sometimes, will there ever come a time when these chill and perfect creatures, so hard and so strong, will awaken to the haunting question…

What is life for?

Son Rise In Charlottesville

For me, the high point of the trip was visiting my son, David, and seeing his new digs. He has recently begun a graduate program at the University of Virginia. We met him at Charlottesville and he gave us a tour of the town and the school.

It was fascinating watching him, listening to him…conducting us through lecture halls and workshops, displaying the models and scale drawings, explaining the 3D printers and CNC machines.

And thus the thing occurred which happens to every parent at some point, or several points…

The question …

From whence came this confident young man? This familiar stranger? And where did he gain these astonishing talents?

Something different...the trip

I'm going to take a break from writing about the Home. I will come back to it. But, something different for now.

I realize that I have not said much (or, really, anything) about the trip here…our drive from Massachusetts to New Mexico. That's partly because I've left that to Martha, whose own blog goes into much more detail about the trip (see "Traveling West," at mttucker.blogspot.com), and does so in a much more interesting way than I could manage.

But, it's also because the trip simply didn't register much for me. I'm not sure why. When I think about it, all I can recall is a succession of highways, trucks and cars, sixteen wheelers and fast food restaurants.

It is rather surprising. I'm usually a more thoughtful traveler than that. But not this time. All I could seem to think about was the road, the traffic, and keeping Martha in sight (she was in the car, I was in my little truck with our dog, Oreo).

Yet, here and there, an idea did force its way into my otherwise well-armored brain.

So…

Vistors (4)

Fourth: last.

One final visitor. The guest who never leaves.

The invisible one.

He is here most well-behaved. Never melodramatic. Never crude. No splashes of red, no scarlet patterns to be observed. No. He is gray and quiet. In his way, I suppose, a gentleman. He regrets the inconvenience of the hour. The failure to phone ahead.

And then the ambulance comes without a siren. Leaves at a leisurely pace. There is, after all, no hurry.

In the morning, of course, one sees a single red flower in a vase on the desk near the nurses' station. There is also a note in a calligraphic font saying something about loving memory and listing a name.

And the faithful Mr. Carlos, that excellent man, is in the vacant room with his industrial carpet cleaner, removing all traces of stain…

All memory of presence.

Visitors (3)

Third set: the irregular.

"It is a lonely place," my father says, meaning the Home.

Most of the patients receive few visitors. Time and circumstance prevent it. Time and trouble consume us. If my father were still working, he would not have the days to attend to her. If I were still in Massachusetts, if I had not been able to move, then I could never visit her for an hour every day. Most people, even the most well-meaning, the most attentive, the most compassionate, must make trade-offs. If it is a question of the grandparent or the child, the present or the future, we know which must be selected.

And if they are not compassionate. If they are not well-meaning. If the daughter or the son is, shall we say? challenged in terms of empathy or even sense of simple obligation, well, then…

"It is a lonely place," my father repeats, this time meaning the world. In its fullness. And its chill.

Visitors (2)

The Second sort of visitor is the semi-regular.

This is the group that comes on a regular basis, but does not stay as long. This is me, for example. I live across the street from the Home. So, each morning, I walk over and see her (and my father) for an hour to ninety minutes.

I'm not the only one, of course. There are others. A brother who comes to see his elder sibling (a stroke, I think, or a fall) at least every other day. Adult children of this or that surviving parent. A nephew.

We come. We do our best. I, for instance, read a lot to my mother. She was fond of mystery stories. On the table beside her now are Tony Hillerman (Hunting Badger), Henning Mankell (The Dogs of Riga), Dorothy L. Sayers (Whose Body?), Agatha Christie (Murder on the Orient Express)…

I read and I read. She seems to listen. Seems to enjoy the sound of my voice. May, indeed, attend to the stories.

Which is good. Though, I think, my other purpose is as important, or more so. That other purpose is my father. When I look and see him in the padded chair beside the bed, and I realize his eyes have closed, and all his enormous burdens have if only for the moment been forgotten, when he sleeps …

I know I have won. I have triumphed. I have achieved something, however small, of genuine virtue.

The Visitors (1)

One last group I shall discuss…my own. The Visitors.

People who come to visit the patients fall, again, into distinct categories. At the top end, the rarest, are the super-regulars. These are individuals who come all the time. They are present every day without fail, and usually for the whole day. They are, as a result, as much a part of the community as the Staff and the patients themselves.

At the particular Home where my mother is there is only one Super, and that's my Dad. He appears inevitably between eight and eight-thirty, goes to her room and waits, speaking to her, reading to her, stroking her hand and her head. He remains there until about one o'clock in the afternoon, then he will go and have lunch and take care of whatever business he needs to transact. After that, very often, depending on circumstances, he will return to the Home in the late afternoon and stay until early evening.

As I say, the Staff is in awe of him. He is their romantic hero, I think. The Man Who Is Always There For Her. The Man Who Never Gives Up. The little man, the frail man, the old man…who is, under it all, under all the illusions of weakness…

Constructed of steel and silver.

The Patients Are…

…surprisingly quiet. They make little noise.

Of course there exceptions. The woman in the bed in the room next to my mother's who called out regularly, monotonously, once a second, like the pained turning of the smallest hand of the clock, Help. Help, Help. A nurse would appear. The sound would stop for ten minutes to an hour. Then resume.  To whom did she appeal and why? I never knew. She was simply gone one morning. And her voice, her call, her understated panic vanished with her.

Then there was the man down the hall. I never saw his face. His room was shadowed. I saw him in the bed. The covers up to his chin. His face directed to the TV on the wall, but not (I think) seeing it. He, too, would call. In his case, a name. A woman's name. A wife perhaps? Someone already dead? (Or, worse, indifferent?) In any case, whoever she was, she did not come. He was not comforted. And one day too his room was empty. The ambulances appear as a rule at night, you see. They are not perceived.

But, for the most part, they…the patients… are quiet. In their beds. In their chairs. Terribly quiet.

*

There are three sorts. Patients I mean. There is the non-ambulatory sort. The people who never leave their beds. Or, if they do, then it is only through the intervention of nurses and aides and machines…for example, a device that is somewhere between a large sling and a small forklift. It lefts them up, out, swings them away from the miraculous inflating/deflating bed that fights bedsores and brings them, gently as possible, into the wheeled chair. Then, after a sojourn in the sun or the front office, it swings them back again.

My mother is one such.

The second sort: The semi-ambulatory. These come and go with rather greater ease. They do not spend the whole day prone. They are assisted out of their beds into their chairs and then rolled about to various destinations—the large front room, where the nurses or aides read to them; the dining area where they are given their meals (if they can feed themselves), various functions here and there, sometimes to the little Van that takes them on outings. The State Fair, for example.

The third sort: The fully or at least mostly ambulatory. They are here for recovery from some devastation or another. A fall perhaps. A shattered hip. A replaced knee. Pneumonia. They move about the halls not in chairs but with walkers. In time, they may go home. To some home or another. Probably not to care entirely for themselves. But, perhaps with a home health aide. A daughter or son. Someone.

*

There is crossover between the three groups. Sometimes, rather improbably, (I hope, one day, my mother) the non-ambulatory will transit to the middle. One morning, one afternoon, a patient will show such improvement that they are able to move, to speak, to command the relative autonomy of their very own wheelchair. Perhaps even go home to the care of a family or of a personal attendant.

However, the more usual course (alas!) is the other way. Someone checks in expecting to be here only a few days, a week or so at most, just until they're "back on their feet." Only, it doesn’t happen that way. They do not regain their feet. Perhaps the feet do not regain their former function…instead weaken, blacken, must be amputated. The walker gives way to the chair. The chair to the bed. The bed to…well, where-ever it is that one goes to from there.

Which is an interesting thought, is it not? Could I perhaps have it backwards?

*

I wondered thus as I walked past a room today, one near my mother's. In it was a woman I've seen here before. She is ancient. Far older than either of my parents. Her hair is utter-most white. She is motionless. Has been motionless the last month.

She lies in her bed. She looks toward the ceiling. I've never heard her speak. The nurses switch off the lights. Apparently their brightness bothers her. What illumination there is in the room leaks from the window in the tight white projections (almost spectral) of a Venetian blind. Plus, there is, of course, the silver flicking of the obligatory television tuned to no station in particular. So all her flesh is pearl in color…hair, face, hands…while the body is clothed in the black of a coverlet that reaches to her chest.

She is the least ambulatory, the least mobile of anyone.

And yet. And yet. Somehow, I feel a kind of tension when I see her. A bowstring tautness. Something of the preparation. The moment without motion. The second before the anticipation. The waiting before the flash and the blur. The diver on the board. The gathering of nerve. The catching of the breath.  The strain. Then… action. The leap. Thus what is most without motion is the most in movement. The least mobile the most upon the wing.

And the woman, the others…they shimmer in their shadowed rooms, possess the illusion of silence, know however the great secret of stillness.

To wit, that it contains the flight. And within the breathless dim is discovered …the fury, the flurry, the exaltation…

The exit…

The child's laugh.

The final bell before the summer's boundless energy.

And speed.

 

The Staff

It can be complicated. There are multiple levels, multiple programs, different sources of funding, connections curving and twisting and sometimes quite Byzantine.

There are those who work with the patients directly, or who work in some fashion around them…nurses, RNs, PAs, Nurse's Aides, M.D.s, the custodial staff, the receptionists, the physical therapists, the speech therapists, the vocational therapists, the replacers of oxygen tanks, the emptiers of this and the fillers of that, those who man desks and those who pilot the wheelchairs to lunches of much softened meats and pureed vegetables…

And, as a rule, these people know my father. He is there so often. He is so friendly. So open. He greets them. He speaks to them. Asks about their families and their lives. They call him, "Mr. Tucker," even when he tells them he is "T.J." They check on him, they watch out for him, ask him about her, encourage him, even…in their way…protect him, or as much as they can in the chaos of the place and the time.

*

Then there is another level. These are the occupiers of front offices and the givers of bills. These do not see the patients, or not as much. These deal with the children or siblings or spouses or whoever it is that is deemed Responsible. Some of these, too, have a relationship with my Father. Something like friendship. He brings them a check once a month.

They have a game they play. He hands the women at her desk the check. She tries to take it. He pretends his fingers clamp shut and the paper cannot be removed by any means short of surgery. She giggles. He relents. The money changes hands.

*

Other layers, other complications. There is a layer of administrators who, in theory, also deal with the patients and their families, but whose actual contact with either may be rather minimal. They are, instead, the managers of those who do connect. They are not "in charge," exactly, but neither do they labor in the vineyards and fields. They hew not wood nor draw water, but they command those who do. They set not policy, but enforce it. In another sort of army, they'd be NCOs. Subalterns is, I think, the term employed by Those Who Know Important Things.

These we shall revisit.


*

Further still upwards. Managers.

Managers of the complex, some of whom have offices here. Most of whom do not. They are invisible. You will not see them. They have no interest in seeing you. They are the Great and the Powerful. The Oz. Behind the curtain. Silent and the Inevitable. The MBAs. Heaven's blest. Children of the King. Increasers of shareholder value. Those who made suburban parents and high school guidance counselors very, very happy.

These, too, we shall see again.

*

And all these women and men are present. These different strands. They connect, twine, interlink, form that most tentative and least natural but most common of all our modern communities…a workplace. The Office. No worse than most. Better than many.

Yet, I wonder, for you see the Others…the patients…they too are present daily. But, they are not permanent. They, the patients, occupy the beds and the chairs, are wheeled into the sunshine on pleasant days, are left in front of the televisions when there is rain. They are tended to. They may be here for years.

But, ultimately, sooner or later, and usually sooner, they…the patients…they have other appointments. Some recover from some distressing ailment and are able to live at home. Others, most, the majority, they, well, shall we say? it is best left unsaid. Insert silence here. An inevitable silence. Perhaps meditative. Perhaps even to be wished. If not to be hurried. But a silence.

On the other hand they…the staff…they will remain. Coming in each morning. Leaving each evening. Thirty minutes for lunch. Tasks large and small repeated ad infinitum. Gossip around the proverbial water cooler. Small friendships which would not normally form and will not last the change of jobs or position. Enmities which are deathless and eternal. Our normal lives.

And I wonder, then, whose story this really is. Who are the genuine residents? Whose home is, in fact, the Home?

Who, in the end, is fixed? The flies in amber?

And who the free?