Boomerang

Hertz Rental Grand Cherokee. Photo at the Cherryland Regional Airport, Traverse City, MI.

As far as I know, Belgium did not melt down on Monday, but according to the last I heard from my financial sources in Stockholm, this crisis is spreading beyond the banks in Europe, and will soon wash over us, too.

The New York Times says this morning that “all kinds of companies are feeling the strain as European banks pull back on lending in an effort to hoard capital and shore up their balance sheets.”

Crap. I had satellite radio on the Grand Cherokee rental I was flogging down US-31, a mostly two-lane road that connects the Little Village by the Bay and the air hub at Traverse City.

Huskvarna backpack blower. Photo Huskvarna Corp.

I was squirming in the driver’s seat- the new Huskvarna C130 leaf- blower had done something to my back, or better put, my yanking of the little pull cord had done that quite nicely. So I did not tune in CSPAN or one of the news channels. I settled on the Sirius Satellite channel 30- “The Loft,” since I needed alternate cuts of quirky alt rock to keep my mind off the radiating pain and financial realities. Each time, I would boomerang back to the puzzling problem of what is it I need to do?

The Trust is going to be stressed by what is coming, and I was growing apprehensive about how to spin out the remaining money. I do not need another major decline in tax-free municipal bonds. Crap.

Moody’s Investors Service, one of the several credit-rating boards, seems to have awoken after a bad dream in which it assigned “AAA” ratings to those crappy sub-prime mortgages. It is now muttering that it might be on the verge downgrading the value of European sovereign government debt.

I heard this morning that American Airlines went into bankruptcy again. Other financial dominoes could be falling later today, I dunno. The Europeans have been trading for hours already this morning. I should act boldly, but I have no idea what position to take to try to weather the storm.

That was the larger news, and I chose to ignore it and turn up the volume on the music. Snow danced on the windshield of the Grand Cherokee. It is winter in the Northland, and there is no getting around the fact that for the next four months travel is going to just plain suck.

At least Fall was gone, her lovely colors transformed into long piles of leaves shaped by the way the wind from the Bay is channeled by the venture effect of the gap between the main house and the Taj Garage.

It took a lot longer than I thought it would. The leaves were still soaked form the light rain of the day before. Nothing unusual about that, and I budgeted time for that and to clean up the kitchen and run the vacuum around.

I looked at my dirty laundry and sighed. No time for a wash. I would have to go back to Washington with the skivvies I had on.

That is likely the way I will have to get out of Washington, too, so keep a weather eye on the Continent.

Oh, and buy a copy of “Boomerang: Travels in the New Third World” by Michael Lewis. He made his bones in analysis of the financial melt down on Wall Street in “The Big Short.” Boomerang continues the journey down the rapids with visits to Iceland, Greece, Italy and Germany to investigate how and why the crappy sub-prime mortgages now have the possibility to bankrupt Europe and head right back here.

I think you will be surprised by some of the revelations. I know the antics of the Irish and Greek banks are entertaining in a grim way.

The last chapter in the book is about a visit to the California town of Vallejo. There Lewis had a chat with one of those firemen whose pensions are dragging down the municipalities. It is not pretty and there are no easy answers.

What is plain (and it was crystal clear as I went through the police-state security check at the Cherryland Airport) is that we are in the third world now. I don’t think we are going to like how this turns out. But that was never a requirement, was it?

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Going Home

Big Ass Robin in front of the Gallery on M-119 outside of Harbor Springs, and the first visual queue to indicate the proximity of The Bluffs nursing home. Photo Socotra.

I like the National Public Radio station that supports Central and Northern Michigan, and of course the Algoma district of Ontario. With so much diversity to support, the Program Manager takes an eclectic approach to what the station broadcasts. It is more than a little like Armed Forces Radio and Television- something for everyone. The news is as familiar as an old shoe, and then there is alternate, classical, new age and jazz at other hours.

I was listening to Antonin Leopold Dvorchak’s “New World Symphony,” # 9, movements 4 and 2, yesterday after they cut away from the weekend All Things Considered. I was hankering to get out of town and get my life back, to the degree I have one, and the last circuit between Harbor Springs and Potemkin Village loomed.

The strains of the symphony were paired with the newer words that made part of his symphony a popular hit:

Going home, going home
I am going home
Quiet light, some still day
I am going home

It’s not far, just close by,
through an open door
Work all done, care laid by
never fear no more…

Maybe that is how this all works. I don’t know. But this morning I am cleaning out the fridge and trying to get organized to get out of The Little Village by the Bay and going home. Being with Big Mama rips me out of the normal space-time continuum, just like her.

I never feel securely anchored in time until Charlevoix is in the rear-view, and I am really back in the world where schedules and clocks are part of the program. Only then can I put the bulk of the guilt back in its holiday wrapper.

I stopped in the gray morning to take a look at the big-ass Robin that stands in front of the Local Art Gallery on the road into Harbor Springs. It is not quite large enough to be a roadside attraction in its own right, but it is an impressive pile of found art, and the first of two visual queues that help me know when I have to turn right to enter the parking lot of The Bluffs.

The other one is the Schiller Funeral Chapel, which I imagine is another place I will need to know about sooner rather than later. It is ominously convenient.

I parked the Grand Cherokee and walked up to the glass doors. It being Sunday morning, I had to enter a key-code to activate the opening mechanism. I was surprised to see Raven advancing toward me.

A young woman in scrubs whose badge announced she was Helena was walking Raven when I got to the Bluffs yesterday morning. She had him by the upper arm and the back of his sweat pants, and he was making good progress.

They make him do a circuit of the facility on his own power a few times a day, which is good, and once we were back in his room the lead nurse Donna came in and gave me a blow-by-blow.

It was a much more comprehensive account of how he is doing than the one I received last Tuesday morning with senior staff.

Donna’s key points were these: he is fitting in. He still wanders, and once (at least) he actually touched a woman on the shoulder as she lay in her narrow hospital bed. Donna did not make a big deal out of it, and said they just “re-directed” him back to his own room, and now they walk him deliberately three times a day. It is the level of care that he needs, and may allow him to continue a little longer in this world.

I shaved him as he sat on the edge of his bed. The staff does that routinely, and aside from looking frail, Donna says he has actually put on a little weight. He feeds himself when prompted by staff that it is something he needs to do.

Raven was trying to lie down and not succeeding. He leaned forward and backward trying to get his butt placed in a manner that he could pivot his feet off the floor and into the horizontal plane. It was a bit like the mechanical bird that appears to drink when placed on the lip of a cup, swaying back and forth in an attempt at perpetual motion.

“Normally, your Dad will try to eat something from each of the groups on the plate. But we had a Boiled New England Dinner the other evening and he ate everything. I swear he was ready to lick the plate,” said Donna.

I nodded, thinking back to thousands of family meals at the casa Socotra. “He always liked corned beef,” I said. “It is one of his favorites. He also likes skimmed milk on ice.”

Donna seemed surprised, and then completed her update and got on with her duties.

I had the iPad with me, so even though I was back in the Apple Blossom Ward, I was still connected to my real life. I saw a note from my pal Mac suggested that Big Mama may benefit from a short and regular walk around Potemkin Village- she gets dizzy after relatively short trips. The Bookstore and Momentum were too much last Wednesday, and the Pond Hill Farm adventure was just about right, though she complained of shortness of breath when we got back to Potemkin Village.

Mac said he had someone to walk his wife during her time in the nursing home, and that might be a good idea. No time to arrange it today, and maybe we can start a mild regimen of exercise when Annook is there.

Raven tried to lie down again, so I put the device down and helped him get his legs up on the bed and a pillow under his head and neck. He closed his eyes in satisfaction, and I spread the comforter over him to keep him cozy. I knew they would be getting him up for lunch soon enough, but I figure the time available should be spend with someone who can talk, so I took off as he dozed.

Raven at Rest. Photo Socotra.

I made it back over to Potemkin Village in time for lunch, which went well, though she picked at the apple-cannoli’s on her plate. She did eat half the pecan pie for desert, so I chalked the meal up to a draw.

I walked with her back to the apartment and shared a poignant moment with her. Then I made my goodbye, kissed her, and drove to Lowe’s to buy a backpack leaf-blower.

That was a little more adventure than I needed- “some assembly required” is what I forgot about small-engine machines that come in boxes. Eventually I figured out the little Huskvarna model C130, and then had a grand time moving piles of wet leaves around the property.

I could not complete the task in daylight, since my fingers began to go numb, but will give it a decent shot when the light comes back.

The nice thing about Big Pink is that there is no yard work.

So, the remaining leaves and a quick straightening up at the house and I am on the road south to Traverse City to try to make a plane. It is like Dvořák’s song, you know?

Except the work isn’t done, and cares are not set by. Not yet, anyway.

Big Mama enjoys a glass of iced skim milk. Photo Socotra.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Game Day

Kick-off was schedule for shortly after noon, an old-school time for an old-school rivalry. I did not know how I was going to pull it off- be with Big Mama enough to make her happy and be still be able to watch the Wolverines beat the Buckeyes.

It has been seven long record-breaking years that the Bucks have kicked the crap out of the Boys from Ann Arbor, but after that sordid little scandal about mementoes and free tattoos for the athletes, this could have been the biggest chance in almost a decade.

I mean, remember when free ink and some used jerseys were  a big deal? We did not know about real horror stories then, like what that predatory monster Sandusky was doing in the locker room at Penn State.

I had a separate plan for the afternoon, and I thought I could pull it off. I got over to Potemkin Village well before lunch. Big  Mama was reading her book about movie actor James Garner.

“He fits right in with us,” she said brightly. “He was from Oklahoma. I missed you.”

She put the book down on the coffee table with her glasses and we sat and talked about things. Inevitably, we got back to he current issue she worries about a lot- The Plan, and how the family was going to work through all this improbable activity. “I can’t believe how all this happened,” she said for the second time this morning. She makes that statement a lot.

“I completely agree, Mom. No one would have thought it work out this way, but it did.” She gave a smile in return for my assurance, and we went back to looking at the genealogy of her family in the thick white binder from the rack of thick white binders on the shelf in the living room of her apartment.

“I missed you,” she said. I had to sit at two meals without you. I think I might have been sitting with some doctors at lunch. They said some things that might have been medical. I don’t know.”

“Mom, you went to breakfast. I was with you at dinner last night.” She looked puzzled. “It was breakfast,” I said, “and I never come for breakfast.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “But there were no eggs. Only raison bran. You mean it is night already?”

“No, Mom,” I said brightly. “It is almost 11:30 in the morning, and we are going to lunch soon.”

“I should have shoes, then.”

“Sound plan, Mom.”

“You know, one of these days we are going to have to write all this down,” she declared.

“You already did, Mom.” I waved at the bookcase. “You wrote all of those. You were legendary for it.”

“I was? I don’t remember,” she said with a note of wonder.

“Let’s go down to lunch, Mom. It is part of The Plan.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Pond Hill Farm

Pond Hill Farm. They are working to reduce the inventory of pumpkins and replace them with pine wreaths for Christmas.

Thanksgiving at Torch Lake was a pleasant experience, and on the whole, I think this trip was a success. Now all I have to do is disentangle myself. Of course, there was that minor flap when I stayed at lunchtime at The Bluffs to feed Raven at The Bluffs and Mom lost track of the Plan, but Carla the waitress (she is much more than that- Angel?) took care of the confusion.

Yesterday, we were waiting to go down to lunch when I heard a rustling outside the apartment door. Carla provided a little Christmas tree that is on the ledge outside Mom’s apartment, and looks out for her when she shows up early to breakfast. She has a big heart, like many do Up North.

I had intended to take Mom shopping yesterday, but the description of what was happening at Black Friday at the Big Boxes was daunting. Carla commented on it. She was up in the middle of the night, and decided to venture out. The town was bustling, and the parking lots in front of WallMart and Meyer’s Thrifty Acres were full.

Filled with apprehension at having Big Mama get the vapors at a packed department store, I suggested a trip to Pond Hill Farms, the organic commune on the north side of the Bay, and stock up on some wild honey and some of their dipping sauces.

Big Mama said she would like that, since she had never been there before- another one of those momentary blips of space-time that go along with her universe these days. Pond Hill had always been one of the itinerary items when family was in town.

I also realized that going there meant driving right by Bay Bluffs where we are warehousing Raven, and I kicked myself- any direction would be better than that- but decided I could find Pond Hill without driving directly past The Bluffs.

Mom is much weaker than she was, and I was a little nervous, but this is so much easier than dealing with Raven. We might have been able to do this some other way, but for good or for ill, he is warm and dry, and his needs are being taken care of. There is no constant nag of dread when the phone rings, and that he has committed some act of intrusion on the other residents.

We got Big Mama’s parka and walked slowly through the lobby and out to the Grand Cherokee in the lot in front of the Village. We took the long way to the Farms, heading up through Bay View, the Methodist summer village of more than 150 Victorian fantasy houses.

Bay View Victorian fantasy house. Spectacular in the summer, the village is locked up and empty during the winter since the houses are not winterized and residence is prohibited by the Association.

Adjacent is the Bay View Country Club, which until last month, Raven and Big Mama were still dues-paying members.

Until I called to quit, anyway. They were not making their monthly minimum on food charges, and are never going to again, so we are done with that.

I did not mention it. I avoided the shore drive to Harbor Springs and instead plowed on past the light and up through the sprawl that now continues on to the village of Alansan.

Turning off on a county road to head west, the scenery was marvelous. Riding in the car was of minimal impact on Big Mama, and she chatted away about these places she had never been. When we got there she was mildly interested in the goats and sheep.

“The children must like this,” she remarked. “I have never been here, though it seems nice.” I didn’t correct her.

We walked around the farm store and got the usual stuff, and then she was happy to go back to Potemkin Village. She was visibly winded and dizzy after the walk up from the car through the lobby and to the elevator and down the hall to her unit.

She might benefit from a regular walk, now that she is no longer shackled to Raven, but I have no idea how to manage that by remote control.

I have not taken her to see Raven, and with the exception of the fact that she now thinks I am him half the time, she does not appear to mind at all. For the moment, things see to have stabilized.

Things are so much different this year than they were last year, and I have no idea when we might have a crisis that will require direct in-person attention. So, while it is a relief to have Raven locked down, the next call from Up North could be a really significant one.

We have taken care of all the little problems, anyway.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Sleeping Alone

Bay Bluff’s Holiday meal. Photo Socotra.

The Stores opened at Midnight over at the big-box mall south of town. This is apparently intended to enable the unemployed and under-resourced to pile up more consumer debt. According to NPR this morning, it is apparently one of the better Black Fridays in recent memory. I love this system!

I knew something like this was coming- not the huge shopping day today, the stand-alone secular semi-holiday that follows the official day of thanksgiving. That was a good one, too, or at least one that was as memorable as possible considering that the people I was here to see have lost theirs.

I started with Raven in the morning, which is where things began to come off the rails. Dad was at the little circular table in the lounge adjacent to the television room where he spends most of his time.

A tray was in front of him- the deal was this: I was taking Big Mama down to Torch Lake to have dinner with a dear old family friend, her grandchildren and a Great-Grandchild. A pretty impressive brood- Olivia’s mom called from Stockholm to warn us that Belgium was going to melt down as soon as trading opened on Black Friday, and even the German Central bank’s last auction of securities had fallen flat.

Note to self: check the European markets early. Plan for melt-down of global economy. But I am getting ahead of myself, as usual.

I ran through the plan for the holiday with Big Mama before I checked off the clock the night before. “We are leaving at two,” I said. “That will get us down to Torch Lake around three, and we are supposed to dine at four or four-thirty.”

Big Mama looked at me earnestly with her pale blue eyes. “Of course. That is the plan. But when will I know when we are supposed to go?”

“At two, Mom. I will see you before that, but don’t worry about lunch. We will have plenty to eat in the afternoon.”

“No lunch,” she said.

“Right. That is the plan. I have to go over to the Bluffs and talk to Doctor B and check on Bill.”

“That is nice of you to do. I have been concerned about him. Phil?”

“Bill, Mom. Your husband Bill.”

“That is very good of you, Victor. I have been concerned about him. Will the Doctor be there?”

“Absolutely,” I said, and as the new day dawned, the streets of the little resort town strangely empty, I calculated the time of arrival at the complex on the bluff above the north shore of the Bay to coincide with that of the lunch service.

The parking lot was jammed despite the lack of traffic on the roads, and I realized the families of the residents must be there in force to share the holidays.

The glass doors opened at my approach. They only do that one way- I will not reveal the secret access code you have to enter if you are on the controlled side of the doors. We could not have that, I assure you. Raven would be gone in a flash- or at least, he would have only months ago.

Although he tried an escape his first day in residence, he had either given up or the staff here just took periodic jailbreaks in stride.

I wanted to see him at lunch. The schedule that kept Big Mama happy was to be at lunch and dinner with her- that left some time with Raven’s after-breakfast nap to sit with him in the television lounge, but I wanted to see how the feeding was orchestrated, and this was, after all, Thanksgiving.

With any luck, I could have the meal with both of them.

First Turkey Day apart in 63 years, I marveled. The public area behind the receptionist-slash-gatekeeper, long tables had been set up and family groups sat with ancient loved ones. The kids looked kind of spooked and the adults looked kind of like me. It was sort of uplifting, and I hoped that the afternoon would work out for us, too.

I was just sitting down on the stool next to Raven, who was intensely occupied with a small glass of cranberry juice. A cafeteria tray occupied the space in front of him with a plate of shredded turkey, a dollop of dressing, submerged in brown gravy, some orange creamy stuff that might have been sweet potatoes at one time, and a soft white roll.

My phone went off as I was reaching for a fork. It was Jackie at Potemkin Village.

“Hi,” I said, reading the name on the illuminated screen. “Is she agitated?” I already knew the answer, of course, but hope springs eternal.

“We thought you were going out for the day.”

“We are. I just wanted to stop by and see Dad before we went. I am sort of thin today. There is only one of me.” I hoped I didn’t seem too querulous. It occurred to me that Big Mama may be on the way here sooner rather than later.

“No, she is fine, we just want to know if we should serve her lunch.”

“That wasn’t the plan, but that would be swell, Jackie. Sorry.”

“We just wanted to know,” she said “Don’t worry about it,” and clicked off.

I looked back at Raven, who had placed his cup down on the table an was looking intently at a younger resident who was twisted in his wheelchair in some permanent rigor. Though he appeared unconscious, periodic snorts emerged from nose and mouth.

Erin was one of the three staff working the four residents, all in scrubs. “Does Eddie seem like he is distressed?” There was no staff consensus on the issue, and I viewed Eddie with mild alarm.

I managed to get Raven interested in turkey and mashed potatoes, and asked if I could get him more cranberry juice, since he had finished his cup well before embarking on the lunch itself.

“It is in the fridge,” said Erin “But we need to keep track of what he drinks, so remember how much you give him.” I was impressed by that level of solicitude, which must have something to do with the larger rhythm of the place and its residents, and then went back to stimulating my Dad with a raised fork.

We reached that point in the meal where he had control of his fork, and moved things around on his plate with precise motions, as if he were mixing hues of color on the palette he used when he was still a gifted painter

Eventually he stopped moving things and I took the tray away and slid it into the slot in the tall food-cart.

“How much did he eat?” asked Erin, seeing the table empty before him. “We have to record that, too. Most? Half?”

“I would give it half,” I said. “He did pretty well.”

Erin outlined what was next on the schedule and I did not want any part of it. I kissed Raven on top of his balding pate and told him I loved him, though I could hear Meat Loaf’s lyric in the back of my mind: “I won’t do that.”

When I got back around the Bay and up to the lunchroom, Big Mama was seated at the service table in the front. I was pleased she was not wearing her coat. I gave Carla the waitress-cum-majordomo a hug.

“She just had a few breaded shrimp and a little of the frosting off her pie,” she said. “That should leave a little space for later.”

“Good,” I said. “Sorry about the confusion.”

“I thought it was part of the plan,” said Big Mama, and I gave her a big smile.

“Completely under control,” I said.

—————-

Author’s Note: I want to make a special, and out of character, digression to thank Dee, who threw her house open to ten people for a Thanksgiving Dinner with all the trimmings at her lovely home on Torch Lake. Recently voted the second most beautiful lake in the world, she overlooks the azure inland waters, and served up a wonderful brown juicy Bird, stuffing, broccoli a fromage, mashed taters with sour and cream cheese for an extra kick, relish, sweet potatoes and those wonderful sweet rolls from the island of Molokai.

She hosted Jane who lives next door, and, who like her, had lost her husband only a few years ago. Jeanne, who brought Russell, who is fading with Parkinson’s, and her grandson Adam with his wife Jennifer and toddler Chase, and Olivia, the lovely granddaughter who left Stockholm for East Lansing to attend college in the states. And Big Mama and me, of course.

Big Mama was amazed at the length of the drive, going to a place she had never been and that she knew well. Or maybe that is the other way around, I don’t know. It was a pretty free-form conversation going down the road in the Grand Cherokee and I was losing track of the narrative.

We did not watch football- the Lions got pummeled by Green Bay from what I could tell- and rather watched the activities of the two-year-old. He was a pistol, and his Mom observed that his name- Chase- was actually a verb.

The little guy was a positive tonic, and he really liked the Reddi-Whip topping for the three kinds of pie: Cherry, Pumpkin Chiffon, and Pecan. It was a delightful festive spread and Big Mama seemed to enjoy the interplay between the four generations under this roof.

We made our excuses as the light faded- I don’t see well at night any more and was as much concerned with safety on the road as separating myself from Big Mama’s delusion.

The darkness was full and complete by the time we emerged from the trees and got on the big road at Eastport. There were merry Christmas lights strung against the Northern blackness along the road at Bay Harbor and on the little houses that lined the road. There were no stars as I pulled up to Potemkin Village, popped the disable placard on the rear-view and walked Big Mama up to the front door, across the lobby and into the slow elevator to the third floor.

We entered the apartment and I took her coat and hung it in the closet. I mixed her a weak wine spritzer and brought it to her as Turner Classic Movies murmured in the background. I was thinking it would not be a weak vodka I poured when I got back to the house.

She looked at me with her blue eyes luminous in the reflected light. “When are you coming to bed?” she asked.

“I am your son, Mom, not your husband.”

“I still want to sleep with someone,” she said sadly. “I did for a long time.”

“I know, Mom.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Turkey Day

Terry prepares to haul off the 1959 Rambler, the last car Raven worked on before transitioning to appliance design and corporate management. Photo Socotra.

I didn’t feel like a complete Turkey yesterday. I did manage to accomplish something. The 1959 Rambler is off the property. Terry and his Jerr-Dan tow truck showed up in the driveway just a few minutes after nine- close enough for government work.

He wore a neon knot cap over sandy hair and had warm blue eyes behind a network of wrinkles that spoke to a life spent outdoors, squinting against the Michigan sun.

“Black ice on the roads down by Grayling and Charlevoix,” he said with a tow-truck driver’s interest in the elements. “Dozen cars off the road, according to my scanner.”

“I have a feeling there might be some work for you later,” I said. “Glad I am not trying to make a plane out of Detroit Metro,” I responded, shaking a hand that emerged warm from his work glove.

I handed over the green title, properly signed, and the bundle of trunk and ignition keys.

I had been up since four, wondering if I could find the keys and get the boxes stacked on top of it somewhere else in the packed garage. “I will have the car at my place on the lot, and the Purple Heart people will pick it up on Monday,” he said.

“Fine with me,” I said. “I just want it off the property and off the books.”

Terry scratched the stubble n his chin. “Then it will go to auction at some point and they will notify you as to the write-off amount for the taxes.”

“Won’t be worth much,” I said. “Too bad. My Dad worked on the design team for that car, more than 53 years ago.”

“It is in good shape,” he said, running his hand under the wheel-well, feeling the strong un-rusted sheet metal. The fins were bold and vertical and the little plate that read “Super” was elegant on the black flank under the defiant crimson stripe down the side. The hood was adorned with little chrome fins that looked vaguely like two Mako sharks swimming along parallel lines of attack.

“I hope somebody wants it and has the time to give it a little TLC and finish the restoration.” Terry shrugged. It was not going to be either of our problems. He handed me a transit receipt for the sedan, and then concentrated on getting the big flat surface of the truck bed canted up and wedged against the rear wheels of the Rambler.

He ran the winch to drag the car out of the garage, and it gave a few inches and then the thick wire began to sing with tension. Terry shut it down and plunged under the car and flashed a light on the front tires, which were flat as pancakes.

“Ah, front left is locked,” he said, and popped up in front of the car and squirmed past the boxes to jump in the driver’s seat. “Push button trannie!” I heard him exclaim from inside the passenger compartment. “My Dad spent 27 years at Dodge Main building things like this. You have to push the Neutral button and release the parking brake at the same time.”

He got out of the car and rummaged around in the tool compartment on the Jerr-Dan looking for an additional chain and a come-along strap. “My daughter had the truck last. When will they learn to put stuff away properly?”

I realized this was a family affair, Terry and his truck and kids. “At exactly the time that it pisses them off that someone else didn’t do their job.”

Terry laughed as he slung the chain under the car, secured it and returned to the control lever. This time the back tires rolled slowly over the ramp, which acted as a gigantic steel spatula to bring the black car slowly and majestically out of the packed garage.

“It should be good enough as it is,” he said, pulling a lever to drop the bed down flat. But I am going to put the travel straps on it even though I am just going across town.”

“Better than having it drop off on Mitchell Street,” I said.

Terry laughed and flicked the handle of the come-along until the springs on the suspension of the Rambler began to compress.

“You have the receipt, I have the title and keys. We are good to go,” he said, sticking out his hand. We shook and then he hopped up into the cab of the truck. He edge it away from the garage, and then began to move slowly down the driveway to turn onto West Jefferson.

I blinked, not knowing quite what to think. Another part of Raven going away, even though I was going to climb into my Grand Cherokee rental and go see him.

There was something about the way that Rambler looked, sitting up tall and proud, that was pretty impressive. And I realized I had to get it in gear if I was going to be able to watch Raven doze for a while before joining Big Mama for lunch.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicocotra.com

A Clean, Well-lighted Place

Raven resting in the television lounge at The Bluffs. Photo Socotra.

Day Two started before dawn- the darkness lingers this far west in the Eastern Time Zone- and the bright lights from the new fixtures in the kitchen illuminated the pad of paper with The List on it. I worked through it as National Public Radio from Central Michigan University burbled in the background on the radio.

The reconstruction made the kitchen a clean, well-lighted place to hang out. I don’t use much of the rest of the house, where the darkness gathers and I can’t figure out which lamp is connected to what switch.

“Get wine for Thanksgiving dinner.” Those were the words after one of the boxes, and an easy one, I hoped. That will be our little contribution to the feast at Torch Lake. That was another little tick-mark on the action list, right near the top. The first official act was to attend the initial evaluation for Raven at Bay Bluffs.

I don’t know what I expected, and really only thought about it as I turned off US-31 and headed north toward Harbor Springs. Would they recommend the locked ward? Was he OK? He hadn’t seen anyone since I set up his room with the rocking chair, personal television and some mementoes from his office. When I got there, I saw that someone had posted a hand-drawn cartoon of a soldier on his bulletin board, and a ball cap with the Bay Bluffs logo and the words “Proud to be a Veteran” across the bill on the beside table.

Hand-drawn card of thanks for Raven’s service. Photo Socotra.

I went on down the corridor to the television lounge and snack area where Raven spends most of his time now.

I arrived early enough to spend some time with him before the consult. He was in the recliner chair, fully extended, in the dimness of the lounge. The recliner is turf he has seized as his own. He was out cold. He roused a couple times and recognized me, vaguely, seeming to be in some mild discomfort.

The staff- a slight man in scrubs named Erin and a perky young woman named Andy- informed me that Raven had been bubble bathed that morning and up for breakfast, and that much stimulation might have been what had him both agitated and fatigued.

I hoped, in passing, that he had no been bathed because I was scheduled to be there- one of several mental notes I was making. In one of the moments between nodding, I told him I had a Big Meeting and that I loved him and was directed to the conference room near the glass doors to the outside with the cypher lock on the inside.

Lined up across from me in a row were the Wing Heard Nurse, social worker, activities director and a senior facilities RN. It looked a great deal like a parole board, and I was grateful that I was not the subject of it.

Note to self: avoid this if at all possible. Then the panel gave me an assessment of how The Boy is doing.

The verdict was that “he is settling in nicely” and “there are no major issues with him.”

He also has lost weight, measured on a weekly basis, and if he stabilizes that will transition to monthly monitoring. He was frail, from what I could see.

I asked the Social Worker about Medicaid, since this could come to that before long, and she said they were prohibited from describing the benefits or how to get them. Curious, that a professional in the matter of utilizing public assistance should be prohibited from talking about it. I gathered it is considered a sort of conflict of interest to have them show you the ropes on how to collect benefits and then spend them for you.

There is a Social Services office in town that deals in Medicaid issues, and I imagine I will have to take a number and figure it out, this trip or next.

Second note: “Figure out Medicaid.”

Raven’s physical condition is fairly good, all things considered. He is on a ward with two-bedroom units and motors around with the caregivers when he is not in the recliner. His room was been switched to accommodate a couple- note to self: when will Big Mama need this level of care? But they put everything up nicely, the photos from his office and the Navy Wings and he has the television from the master bedroom at the house.

I sat with him for an hour after the conference, reading mail on my iPad and interacting with him when he roused. He became desirous- no, insistent on the idea that “People’s Court” was not something he wanted to watch, and I got him the Turner Classic Movie where Gary Cooper was strutting his stuff on the Back Lot at Warner Brothers. Raven seemed to relax and went back to sleep.

I realized that quality time with him was going to be a challenge, and glanced at my watch. I saw I had time to get back to Potemkin Village in time for lunch. I walked back to the front door, entered the code and the exited the building to head back around the Bay to the Village. When I got off the elevator on the third floor I stopped at the well-lit beauty parlor to see if Sherri could fit me I for a haircut this week.

“It is going to be tough,” she said. “There is No Thursday, and I have to fit all of the regulars into today and Friday.” She looked over my shoulder said: “There goes your Mom.”

Sure enough, Big Mama had a decorative cloth bag with a bottle of wine in it. I intercepted her and asked if she was headed for Thanksgiving.

“Isn’t it today?”

“No, Mom. It is Thursday. You just came unstuck in time.” She was a little sheepish.

“I can’t tell any more.”

“I know, but it is OK. Doesn’t really matter.” We got her briefly anchored in this time, put the wine back in the apartment and went down to a nice lunch.

She has not been out of the Village in a while, and I asked if she wanted to go to the bookstore and pick out a large-print novel. She allowed as how she did, and I watched her enjoy a pleasant lunch (the egg salad sandwich a hit.) We went Up Town the back way to avoid the hospital complex on the bluff (her house is in back, and who needs the question, you know?) and found a place to park uptown across from Horizon Books.

I dropped some coins in the meter- did you know you get a whole half-hour for a quarter here? And Big Mama was actively engaged as we walked across the street and into the bright bookstore. I directed her to the racks of large-print potboilers, but she settled on an Ernie Hemingway reprint and a large format volume containing and appreciation of the career of movie and TV actor James Garner, one of whose movies Mom had watched last night.

I looked at the Hemingway title she selected: “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.” The synopsis on the back staid it was about “the pain of old age suffered by a man seated in a cafe late one night.” Apparently, Ernie used light as a motif to demonstrate the contrast between the old man and the young people around him.

The deafness of age- or cognition, as I understand it- is used as the symbol of his alienation from society, along with the artificial light of the café and the profound nature of the darkness outside. I flipped through the back of the book. I saw that Ernie was describing the desperate emptiness of a life near finished without the fruit of its labor, and an old man’s restless mind that cannot find peace.
“Why did you pick this one, Mom?” I asked.
“What?
“Never mind, Mom. Looks like a great book.”

We walked around the corner to see if there was anything in the Momentum discount clothing store to buy, and there wasn’t.

Here is where it got scary. She could not make it back to the corner, and seemed short of breath and wobbly on her feet. We had to go into the Chase Bank lobby for a while and sit down let her catch her breath. She is not much on endurance and this could be a factor of the congestive heart event she had two years ago.

The staff was very helpful and asked if we needed assistance.

“Not right now,” I said. “But we are depositors.”

It is a cautionary tale for future big expeditions- like the one for Thanksgiving. If we keep the walking to a minimum, perhaps it will be all right.

Along that line, I asked her if she wanted to do any shopping for Christmas and she asked me about a budget. I told her it was a couple hundred dollars, since we have to watch every penny these days. She was receptive to that, for as long as we were talking about it, anyway. It won’t matter tomorrow, I thought, and we will start everything over again.

I told her I had a couple meetings in town and buzzed back to the house to take conference call and answer office e-mail. Then a call to badger the Purple Heart people about having the 1959 Rambler hauled away. They were very helpful, and hooked me up with a local towing service that will take the 1959 sedan away on a flatbed trailer at 0900 sharp the next morning.

I smiled. Something accomplished. I was able to check that box off, with the exception of the fact that I need to find the keys to the ignition, sign over the title and move the boxes off the hood and trunk. I started another list, and put it on the island in the kitchen, and drove back over to the Village for dinner.

I walked into the unit after knocking to announce my presence, and Big Mama looked over from a film starring Broderick Crawford in what looked like the pilot for his television show “Highway Patrol.”

I got her a glass of wine and cut it with Perrier and ice and made cheese and crackers. On-screen, Broderick was tough and efficient and no-nonsense. It was black and white, and the contrast in the cinematography emphasized the noir aspect of the film.

The Highway Patrol busted the perp at the bottom of the letter “W” in the Hollywood sign that looms over sundrenched brightness of Tinsel Town.

I envied Mr. Crawford. That guy could really take care of business.

Mr. Broderick Crawford. Photo Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

Meeting Pat

(Potemkin Village in November. Photo PV.)

The journey continues. I crashed with pals at a magical place over in scenic Leland on Sunday night so I could talk to the Broker on Monday morning and try to unscramble the finances.

He informed me that things could be managed until summer until we are down to the tax-free municipals in the account, which they had never intended to sell. In order to continue the orderly dissolution of the estate, I need to find the basis point of the funds.

“I can’t do it here,” said Sam, looking out the picture windows that frame his magnificent view of the Mission Peninsula jutting out to bisect the gray green waters of the east arm of Grand Traverse Bay. He was in a sober dark suit, crisp white shirt and rep tie. He radiated confidence, which I pointed out was sort of insane with the real possibility of sovereign debt tanking in Europe and the whole banking system melting down.

“It is possible,” he said slowly, not comfortable with this line of conversation.

“I am not going to stop investing,” I said. “Though I think that a balanced portfolio should include silver or gold to trade for things, ammunition and canned food.”

“I agree with the ammunition,” he said. “But historically, precious metals have not performed at these levels.”

“I am not sure that history has anything to measure this against,” I said. “At least not for seventy years. Grandma used to nag my Dad to pick up lumps of coal by the railroad tracks when he came home from school.”

“The only lumps of coal around here are the ones we should mail to Congress,” said Sam.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that Super Committee thing. The automatic spending cuts in Fiscal 2013 are going to slash the budget of my government customer, and I don’t know how any contractor is going to escape significant contraction if they occur.”

“You haven’t had a recession back there,” he said. “I have a shirt-tail cousin in the custom home business there in Bethesda and he said he is still building away.”

“Yeah, maybe that contributes to the air of unreality there. I haven’t thought about the Fall of the West since I got on the plane at Reagan National yesterday.”

“We don’t spend a lot of time with it here. It is what it is.” Then he suggested I plow through Mom’s records and find the basis point for those Municipals.

I sighed. “Mom has every piece of paper she looked at since 1948. I will get on it, if I can find the right generation of files. At some point she ceased to file topically and went to chronological, with a month’s worth of bills and statements in a folder stacked by when they arrived. All the stacks have been moved, of course, so it will be an adventure.”

“You have a few months to get through it,” said Sam, and then we looked at the specific performance of the PIMCO funds in my portfolio.

The nice people at Hertz- Jerry, actually- had upgraded me at no charge to a Jeep Grand Cherokee for the week’s ride. All leather, four wheel drive, and I held it mostly to the speed limit heading north through Acme, Indian River, Charlevoix and finally into the Little Village on the south shore of Little Traverse Bay.

I glanced at the phone and saw I had missed a call, unknown origin but with the local area code prefix. I punched the screen to return it, and it was the desk at Potemkin Village. Big Mama had been down, a little frantic, about where the people were. “Apparently someone is supposed to be here,” said the desk lady.

I told her I would be along, presently, thankful that I was here, and not back in DC trying to live my own life. I tapped the accelerator on the Grand Cherokee coming out of Eastport and squirmed a little on the leather seat. Seems like everything is for sale Up North- maybe it is the time of the season with the Fudgies gone with the temperate weather, or maybe this is just a profound malaise in the Michigan tourist economy.

The house was still standing when I rolled into the driveway, so that was a good start. I started charging all my devices- the three phones, the iPad and computer, and then drove uptown to deposit the check Sam’s gal had provided. It is an fusion that should last until February. Sam had kindly offered to set up a means to do it without appearing in front of Stacey, the bubbly Rubinesque teller behind the only open window at the Bank.

I stopped at the market and got some stuff to gnaw on around the big feast on Thursday, and then realized I had to get on with my version of Village Reality.

The Ladies (one gentleman) were seated in a semi-circle in the lobby and looked at me with suspicion as I strode across the lobby. Time for the Game Face, and I put it on and gave them a big “hello.”

Some acknowledged my greeting. Others did not. That is life in The Village.

I arrived on the third floor with the elevator’s due deliberation, and Big Mama gave me a bit of a start when I used the knocker to announce that I was coming in the door. The television was on, though not tuned to a channel, and there was no one watching it. I looked in the bedroom and she was there, curled on her side watching the other flat screen from the king-sized bed that dwarfs her now that Raven is not there.

She was happy to see me, and we caught up on her delusion. “I was very concerned,” she said. “I tried to get your number.” She showed me the white-board from the kitchen with all of the emergency numbers plainly written. She could not find her address book, and it looks like outbound phone calls are now a bridge too far.

In a nutshell, she expects Annook and Spike to appear momentarily. Spike had talked to her on Sunday, according to a note from him on the iPad, and he detected rising agitation. I think I got her calmed down and got her a glass of wine with sparking water to cut the impact.

Kirk Douglas was on the Paths of Glory on the television, and Big Mama was completely clear on the Adoph Menjou’s identity, though she did not know if he was playing a German or a Frenchman. At the appointed moment, one of the assistants stuck her head in the door to tell us to go to dinner.

“Mom, you are showing a little more cleavage than usual.”

“I can’t get the button to work,” she said.

“I know. That is probably because you have it on inside out.” She gave a merry laugh.

“You could be right, Bill.” I was gratified that she disappeared into the bedroom and returned with a new top and short-sleeved sweater. At least that is not gone yet. I took her to the table she had occupied at mealtime with Raven for fourteen months.

Liza waved us off, informing us that Big Mama now sat with Hazel and Pat and a much younger woman who apparently had Downs Syndrome.

Hazel was quiet and deliberate with her meal, a half grilled-cheese and bacon sandwich. Pat was something else. I understand that photography of the residents is a matter of privacy, and I respect that, though I have snapped shots of Raven and Big Mama on the Grand Decline.

Pat is something else. She has a wild mane of silky gray hair and an excellent van dyke moustache and goatee of wispy white. She is an astonishing vision across the table, and also has a wicked wit. She must have been a pistol in her time. She wanted Big Mama’s parfait dessert, and there was no objection in passing it over.

The meal reached some sort of general conclusion and Hazel drifted away, and the Down’s Syndrome gal bustled off with some energy, announcing she was just “going to give the place a try, maybe for a year,” and she could be visiting friends in Gaylord.  I told Pat I was pleased to meet her and would see her the next day. She snorted. “May as well,” she said, dismissing us and looking for an RA to wheel her back to her apartment.

Back on the third floor, I got Big Mama settled on the couch and talked with her as she eased into the Turner Classic Movie. I told her what the plan was for the week for the seventh or eighth time, and she seemed happy.

It is a big morning, I thought, walking out to the Cherokee.  I have to be over across the Bay for Raven’s initial consult- and then I have to speed back and take Mom out shopping- for books, I thought, large type editions and see if she will try reading again.

It is all quite interesting. I can’t tell if she is worse than she was a month ago- half the time I am her husband and the other half her oldest son. This slow-motion progression is very strange.

Half and half makes a complete whole though, and I suppose that is likely as good as this is going to get.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com <http://www.vicsocotra.com>

Home for a Holiday

I have been avoiding the weather forecast- it is out of my hands. The throttle of the Bluesmobile is not going to be under my right foot today. I could not bear the idea of driving that 800-mile hockey stick again so soon- the last trauma is just fading- and now I have to confront the joys of the air transit system.

I may be able to see the Turnpikes below- we will be on generally the same flight path once we clear the National Capital Region, but the whole enterprise is in the hands of other people.

Commercial jets are fine, but I do prefer aircraft with ejection seats, just for the record. This morning it was time to see what Mother Nature has in store for me. The season of surprises is back, and travel by any means is a complete crap-shoot.

I am cautiously optimistic about today.

Today: Variably cloudy with light snow flurries possible. Temps nearly steady in the mid 30s. Winds N at 10 to 20 mph. There may be snow at O’Hare between flights. Ugh.

Tonight: Generally clear Up North. Low 24F. Winds ENE at 5 to 10 mph. The Big lake will glitter in the moonlight, if there is any. Crap. Check lunar phase.

Tomorrow: the Broker, the Bank and The House. Partly to mostly cloudy. High 41F. Winds SE at 5 to 10 mph. There is a winter coat up there, I think. Otherwise there is a trip to the store in store. Crap, where are my gloves?

Tomorrow night: A few clouds. Low 32F. Winds W at 5 to 10 mph. Frost on the car- crap, I need to get rid of the Rambler in the garage. Don’t know what to do with Mom’s little green car. Ensure titles for both are in briefcase.

Tuesday: Mostly cloudy. Highs in the low 40s and lows in the low 30s. Gunmetal gray skies and bay- the day I have an appointment with the Bay Bluffs to see how Raven is doing. Dinner with Big Mama.

Wednesday: Partly cloudy. Highs in the low 40s and lows in the low 30s. Please let the sun shine through. I will need some light. Lunch with Raven and dinner with Big Mama?

Thursday: Turkey Day at Torch Lake. Times of sun and clouds. Highs in the upper 40s and lows in the upper 30s. That is good- I plan to have Big Mama on the road down there…when? Crap. Check and see when Dee plans on dining. That will be a hundred miles on the road with her. Buy wine.

Friday and the weekend? That is too far away to think about.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

About Time

Honor Guard and Navy Band in formation above the Columbarium at the national cemetery. Arlington House, R.E. Lee’s home, sits at the crest of the hill. Photo Socotra.

Mac was waiting in the lobby as I pulled up in the Bluesmobile in the alley in front of The Madison. The service at the Old Chapel was scheduled for 0900- nine o’clock sharp- and with the competition of the daily commuters trying to get on post we were anxious not to be late.

That put us in the pew about a half hour early, but that was fine.

“You know, they ought to put curtains or something on the walls,” said Mac, leaning over. “It would cut down the echo in here. I can barely understand what they are saying.”

I nodded, and surveyed the growing crowd. The Chapel slowly filled up as the organist began the prelude. I realized I had not brought a handkerchief and kicked myself. This was likely to be emotional, between the ceremony that will mark the end of Kurt’s life, and the chaos that is sweeping through mine at the moment.

I saw Pastor Mary Davila talking to the Sergeant near the pulpit, wearing her collar and civilian clothes. She had performed the Memorial service out in Leesburg almost three months ago. She is a bundle of energy, the Pastor is. Petite, she is an avid sportswoman whose interests spread beyond the chapel walls.

She is an equestrian who breeds and shows Morgan horses, is reportedly a fanatical UNC hoops fan, and stays fit with tennis and running. Her visage showed none of that this morning. She was focused, and with a last admonition from the Army, she ducked out the side door to don her sparkling white vestments with the rope belt.

The admonition from the Sergeant was undoubtedly about time. They have extremely strict limits on the length of the service, and there are a lot of moving parts to these interments. The Service band, caisson and honor guard have to muster in formation out in the parking lot, which means the buses and horses have to be staged.

The day must go in a precision lockstep, with a and if things get off track early the cascade of disorder is about what happens in bad weather at O’Hare International airport. They are running around thirty funerals a day at Arlington- some large, some small, and with a variety of levels of military honors.

Between the Old and New Chapels and the Administration building, there is something happening every hour, and time is of the essence.

Time. With time there is healing, Pastor Davila said, once the service was begun, and Kurt is whole and at peace. The delay imposed by the schedule at Arlington and the actual sad event is such that the pain is drawn out over weeks. Mary commented on it from the pulpit, observing that numbness in the face of tragedy is the initial reaction, and by the time the funeral rolls around, that has passed and the real raw pain still lingers.

Time is elastic, I thought, sitting on the hard pew. It had been high-summer warm on the day of Kurt’s memorial at St. James out in Leesburg. I remembered how the black suit dampened over the starched white shirt I wore. Nearly three months later, the morning was crisp, almost too chilly for comfort, though the sun was bright and cheery.

Mac and I had our topcoats staged in the backseat of the car against the cold that was liable to cloak the Columbarium down the hill.

The order of the rest of the service was likewise brisk. Someone with a good voice was seated behind us, and “Amazing Grace” brought tears to my eyes, and I was finished off by verses one and four of “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.”

It is emotional enough with that first verse that cries out for mercy to those in peril on the sea. The fourth verse is the one for the fliers, and when the words rolled over me I could not finish singing, thinking of Raven:

Lord, guard and guide the men who fly,
Through the great spaces of the sky;
Be with them traversing the air,
In darkening storms or sunshine fair.
O God, protect the men who fly,
Through lonely ways beneath the sky.

Tears ran down my cheeks. I hate that. But I can’t tell you how proud I was to have been part of the system that produced the young men who carried Kurt’s remains, and the triangle of the blue field with stars of the folded flag. Crisp, graceful and composed, they made this solemn and dignified, quite unlike the chaos and violence that brought us all here, and the long silence that will follow.

Mac and I followed the honor guard of two, the pastor and family out into the brilliant light and manned up the police cruiser to join the cortege. We snaked at marching pace through the back gate to the cemetery and down the big hill that marks the end of Virginia’s Piedmont.

We followed Dave’s hot Porsche Panamera. Mac liked it a lot. “I hear he has 500 horses under the hood,” he said as we marked time in the long column, the powerful vehicles harnessed to the measured timeless pace of the horses and the marching formation.

We passed the stones that mark the older graves at the top of the hill, and then the more thickly placed formations of white stone that mark in-ground inurnments on the steeped shoulders of the hill. We passed Section 64, where Mac’s grave is located.

“My wife Billie is keeping dibs on it for me,” he said.

Mac looks down the row in Section 64 where his grave is located. Photo Socotra.

“That is unsettling,” I replied, “but it seems like a comfort. I have no idea where I am going to wind up. I used to think the Columbarium was sort of impersonal, but now I don’t know.”

“In ground for me,” said Mac. “Already settled.”

I looked over and saw the gray sandstone bulk of the Pentagon rising to the south, behind the white markers in Section 64. Eventually we turned left to follow the caisson to the Columbarium, and were directed to park in two columns. The thin bright sun had brought a little warmth to the morning, and Mac was able to walk to the ceremonial canopy where Kurt’s flag was unfolded and folded again in the ritual by the clean-cut kids who make the banner snap with energy at each fold.

The starry blue triangle was passed to the white-gloved Commander who represented the Naval District of Washington. The identification badge on his chest signified his day job was at the White House, and his sword hung with grave dignity as he presented the flag to Kurt’s widow.

Then, the ceremony done, Mary led Bob and Anita back to where the niche awaited in the vast bunker-like Columbarium. If there is anything more poignant than watching a father and mother carry the ashes of their child to the grave, I am not sure what it might be.

The longest walk. Bob and Anita Juengling bear the ashes of their son to his grave. Photo Socotra.

Pastor Mary had some brief remarks in the aisle where Kurt’s niche is located, uniforms and family crowded around, and Kurt’s earthly remains were placed inside the niche and the green cloth curtain closed them up.

Bob cleared his throat, and said “We will be having a reception at the Officer’s Club, and would like all who have the time to join us there.”

Mac had retreated to the Bluesmobile, not being up to the long walk from the canopy back into the maze of the Columbarium.

“Do you have time to go to the reception, Admiral?” I asked him as I climbed in and fired up the V-8.”

He gave me a thin smile. “Time is about all I have,” he said. I nodded, and then we drove back up the hill.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com