First Flakes

When I see the first snowflakes of the season, I always get a little excited.  If I looked in the record books, I could find out if snows were heavier in the '50s and '60s.  Of course, in the '50s I was young, ergo short.  I grew up in the country.  It could have been a farm, but we let it go fallow.  The border between our land and the neighbor's land made a natural snow fence, creating drifts that I remember being a million stories high.

Of course, I was short.

But the drifts truly were high.  Several feet anyway.  My siblings back me up on this.  We had our own dogs...they were the family's dogs, but the cocker spaniel was my sister's dog and a large mutt whose mother was a German shepherd and whose father was a golden something or other favored me.  Rusty, the cocker spaniel, would get weighed down in snowballs.  She was close to the ground and had longish fur, fur that snow loved.

George, my mutt, loved snow.  George loved everything, even baths, but he really loved snow.  He'd try to catch snowballs.  If he did, he didn't act as if he were fooled.  No, he was ready for the next.  If you poked a hole in the snow, he'd drive his nose into it and give it a good search before he gave up.

Because the drifts were so tall, we shoveled steps to the top.  Usually the snow was deep enough to hold all of us.  George ran around, perhaps to make sure it was safe for us, perhaps just because he could.  He knew how to play King of the Drift and would try very hard to keep us -- me in particular -- from getting to the top.  Concentrating on one of us made it possible for another of us to sneak up the drift and then he'd try to attack the other kid.  Not attack...just try to keep them from taking his place...as Top Dog.

He also loved to chase after us when we'd sled on our property.  We had a couple of pretty good, long runs.  He'd take off beside us and run alongside.  He loved it when we fell off the sled.  He knew we weren't hurt and would grab hold of a coat sleeve or glove and start shaking his head like crazy.  All we could do was stay on the snow while he was shaking us and try to get up when he'd had enough.

I wonder if we'll ever have winters of snows like that.  Back then, we didn't have built-in snow days, so we'd have to make up time.  One winter we had so much snow we had school on two Saturdays.  Another year we went to mid-June.

We lived just outside Gap, a small town in Lancaster County.  Maybe 600 people lived there.  In the '50s, people weren't as rushed, didn't feel they had to brave storms to get somewhere.  Snow meant the regular world stopped.  When a certain amount of snow fell, we'd get our sleds and take to the streets.  Gap is on a hill.  If there wasn't a lot of snow, parents would be on the look-out for cars, and drivers knew kids would probably be sledding; if there was a lot of snow, nobody was going anywhere anyway, so the streets were ours.  We had three streets to choose from.  One ran from the top of the hill where the lane to our place began and which then ran into town.  A second started at the lumber yard and picked up the same street in town, and that involved making a turn, which added to the fun.  The third was Gap's main drag, and the hill was long and amazingly steep.  And not just because I was short.  I've looked at it as an adult and it's a steep hill.  We'd start at the top, at the hardware store, and zoom downhill for two blocks and then hit the level part, but the built-up speed let us coast for maybe another half block.  Plus there was the added thrill of going over a really small bridge...up the ramp, coast for a microsecond, and then fly for a bit until the sled hit the street again.

Now, the snow plows and salt trucks are out at the sight of the first flake.  The world does not go on hold because of a snow storm. And it's a shame.  Sledding on park hills is fine, but the space is limited.  It's safe, it's fun and it's legal.  (Gap had no government and the only police were state police, and they came in only by complaint.)  And it's wholesome and pasteurized and programmed.  A little daring can be a good thing.

The Chair Is Sometimes The Answer

He was 22, tops.  Probably not even that.  His dyed-black hair was tied back into a respectably long ponytail.  His thin mustache and wisp of a goatee gave the illusion he was just getting into his twenties.  His solid physique wasn't overdone.  In fact, he didn't speak highly of gyms.  Was he gay?  Maybe.  There was something to the way he carried himself when he walked that put a "maybe" on my gaydar.  If so, he would be a good addition to our side.  It was just that anger thing, the desire to fight.  Almost a need to fight.  He could be our pit bull, I thought.

When we walked the halls in the psychiatric facility, he'd often talk about fighting, how alive he felt punching, jabbing, hitting someone, how he respected the blows that came to him.  I once remarked that it looked like he didn't get hit in the face much; he was rather to quick to correct me.  At least nothing left scars.

We were in several group sessions together.  One featured a woman maybe in her late twenties, maybe in her early thirties, who wasn't particularly good at leading.  Pretty much, she didn't have a clue.  She seemed hopelessly naive in the ways of leading a group.  She reminded me of a few professors I'd had in college, the ones who read their notes in a monotone and expected you to be fascinated by the information presented.  It's one thing in college; it's another thing to drone on and on, reading your notes in a monotone, to a room full of medicated people.  She was there to develop our coping skills.  Most coped by falling asleep or leaving.

After lights out on the night before one session, one of the women went into a rage about being kept in the facility and argued loud and long with one of the staff.  All of us could hear it (and were pretty much in favor of letting her go, although no vote was offered) and she was finally appeased or restrained...at least it got quiet.  I didn't know at the time, but the fracas took place in front of my young friend's room.  We'd talked a bit about it at breakfast and I could tell he was still very agitated.  He mentioned he had given thought to breaking a chair in his room and clubbing her over the head.  He was tired, however, and opted to wait it out.

That afternoon at our group, the young naif went on and on about coping skills and happy places and thoughts to distract us from doing whatever it was we were there for having done.  She said something that sparked my friend's recollection of the night before.  He spoke about becoming more and more angry and how he'd considered breaking the chair and hitting the woman to the floor.  The group leader's eyes grew rather large as she tried mightily to maintain her placid expression.  She asked, "What would you have done if she got up again?"  "She wouldn't have got up again," he said matter-of-factly.  I'll give her points for staying in the room, but she did have to look away.  The young guy looked at me and it took all I had to keep from laughing.  I knew I was supposed to be horrified, but it just struck me as being very funny.

Later in the session, she read/talked about coming up with something to think about that would keep us from attempting suicide or battering someone to the floor.  I looked at him and suggested, "Maybe your mantra should be 'The chair is not the answer.'"  He laughed good naturedly; the leader nodded her head and agreed in all seriousness.

He was released before I was, and we had a few conversations before then.  We figured out several things we had in common.  I also told him how I hated being picked on when I was young.  He told me that he was the one in his school who dealt with bullies.  I thanked him.  We agreed that maybe an act of violence might be called for sometimes.  He suggested, "The chair is sometimes the answer."  Sometimes maybe.

Back home again...

Hi...

I have returned from two more-or-less all-expenses-paid weeks in Harrisburg's psychiatric institute.  As close to suicide as I've ever been.  I realize this is all going to sound like a really bad Movie of the Week, but my life frequently feels like a really bad Movie of the Week. 

My meltdown happened on Friday the 13th.  I've been having a really bad time trying to keep up with bills for quite some time.  I've been seeing a therapist about it and we keep coming to dead ends.  On Friday the 13th I received a note from PPL saying they were going to cut off the power unless I paid them what might as well have been $1,000,000.  Jack is unofficially disabled, but the doctor contacted PPL and told them he would be adversely effected by losing electric.  A month's reprieve but still not a real solution.  Jack finally applied for public assistance and medical assistance and was rejected.  (I learned in the hospital that 1st time rejection is now commonplace.  I wish we'd been told before we started counting on it.  He was refused because he didn't fill out a couple of forms...which they didn't send.  But, of course, that's not their fault.)  All the other bills were as overdue as they have been forever.  Nasty-grams are kind of expected. 

My therapist and I talked about maybe borrowing from the life insurance my mother set up long ago.  I called the life insurance company to see if it were possible to borrow against a policy.  I was told it was not.

And that was it.  I saw that as my final possibility and it was shot down.  I went into some kind of state I'd never been in before.  I felt totally useless, hopeless, helpless, enraged at myself.  Jack walked in and managed to talk me down and finally got me to lie down.  He called our doctor who called the pharmacy with a prescription for Xanax.  Because we've been going to the pharmacy forever, they gave Jack the Xanax (I frequently pick up his prescriptions and we're never given a hard time) and I was good for the night.

My head seemed clearer, I was less panicked, but I still had no idea what to do.  One night as I was about to take a Xanax, I poured the contents into the palm of my hand it finally dawned on me:  I may not be able to take care of the bills, but I could certainly take care of the idiot who was responsible for it all.  I looked at the pills and I can't explain the sense of power and relief I felt.  Then I thought of Jack and realized I couldn't lay that on him and, except for one, I put the pills back in the bottle.

I talked to my therapist and we agreed it was time to go into the hospital.  I'd been having suicide fantasies for quite a long time, but they never had that ring of truth to them.  This did. 

I went in on the 18^th and emerged from the cocoon this past Wednesday.  I felt so much better in there.  It's not that the rest of the world stopped, but there was nothing I could do about it and I could just concentrate on being me.  I've discovered that's someone I haven't known for a long time.  I still feel kind of fragile, but it's all right.  I'm supposed to start asking banks for a consolidation loan or a credit card.  So far it's encouraging.  The odd thing is that I haven't come back to my music.  The last time I touched it was the night before the breakdown.  All in good time, I suppose, and I've been writing words a lot.  It's just that the music hasn't come back.

I'm OK for the most part.  It's just that I thought I should tell you.

Trust you're doing well and getting the skis polished up for the winter.  I miss you.  Take good care.


d

On Flipping Out

It's not like it wasn't expected, except I didn't know what to expect.  Nothing has been going well for quite some time.  Some of you are probably tired of me talking about suicide.  "So come on, already.  Put up or shut up."  Understood.

We received notice that the electric could be cut off anytime after 8 that morning.  The letter came from the town cops that my car is now regarded as abandoned, since I haven't been able to pay for registration, inspection and insurance.  Other things have been piling up.  I've been unable to complete forms to ask for a lower rate for my shrink bills, the hospital has started sending nasty grams because I haven't paid my co-pay for the hernia exam.  I paid the phone and cable, but only enough to keep them on for now...they'll want the higher rate again soon.

Naturally, because Pennsylvania cannot bring itself to consider gay people actually, real people, Jack and I cannot marry and therefore cannot qualify for lower electric and heat rates and some other things.  He applied for medical assistance, public assistance (food stamps...or SNAP, as it's now called) and maybe some cash assistance, too.  He's been on his back with horrendous pain for several weeks now; nothing seems to help.  Being turned down for all three requests for help didn't help matters.  Probably like SSI, public assistance turns everybody down the first time.  And if I’ve learned anything, it’s never get your hopes up when Republicans are in charge.

I thought I had some money I could borrow on my life insurance.  I talked with the nice lady at New York Life only to find out that I have nothing left.  I'd hoped there'd be enough to borrow to pay the electric folks what I owe.  Nothing.  And it felt as if it all came crashing down.  Not around me; on me.

As do most counties, Dauphin County has a crisis center.  I called them.  The woman tried to be helpful, but unless you have the pills in front of you or the razor blade hovering over a wrist, there's nothing they can do.  She suggested an agency that's supposed to help people in need, but they're closed on Friday and you have to go through intake first.

I should have called my therapist, but he was going on a fishing trip over the weekend.  Part time, he’d already left.  I wouldn’t want to be bothered by some asshole who can’t keep his life in order.  I didn’t try to get in touch.

Jack was trying to console, to be helpful.  He went to the doctor to get the medical exemption thing that keeps the electric on for a while.  He also told her what I was going through and asked if she could prescribe something.  She said she’d call in a prescription for the generic Xanax.  It was noon; it would take until 5 before the prescription was called in and ready.

Admittedly, I wasn’t taking notes at the time, and I don’t recall everything.  I felt absolutely useless, a complete and utter failure, that everything bad in our household was my fault, that I couldn’t keep our heads above water, that maybe I should just bow out as gracefully as I can.  Jack has Percocet for his back pain as well as some lesser pain reliever.  I wondered if the doctor would refill his prescription if I took what he had.  And yet suicide didn't seem like the thing to do.  I saw no hope.  Have you ever had that time that seems like an eternity when you realize, finally, there’s no hope to be had?  I felt I had nothing…nothing in my life except my compassionate husband beside me, but nothing to solve the problems.  It was the most desolate, hollow, saddening, terrifying, disgusting, solitary, raging, panicked feeling I've ever experienced.  And there was nothing to be done.  I was on the out side of freaking out.

I have been in the wonderful land of Xanax since late Friday afternoon.  I could stay here very easily.  I left a message for my therapist asking if he’d call.  I haven’t heard from him, but I’ll see him Wednesday.  I should be all right until then.  I feel I am now an inconvenience to Jack, that going to the hospital doesn't fit his plans, that it scares him because he doesn't know what to do until I get back.  Neither do I.  I do think I need to get away from everything.  It’s not suicide, but I think psych wards are open to anxiety people, too.  I guess I’ll find out Wednesday.

Good-bye, Maybe

I haven't quite decided whether to give up this blog idea.  I think I have things I want to share, but I can't do this on my computer (I keep getting this "Error on page" message and then can't get a cursor) and I don't like doing this where I put in time.

It's been fascinating seeing where readers live.  Maybe I'll continue when I can (and if you can tell me how to fix that "Error on page" thing); I don't know that I have much to share, but I like the idea of being able to put something out there for others to read.

We'll see what happens.  Thanks.

Dave

The Imaginary Revue Grows

Hey...

I know you've been anxiously waiting for those piano/vocal arrangements I told you about at the June concert.  Sorry.  Things have changed.  It's still all pretend, but my shrink has convinced me to Pretend Big.  So I have.

Originally, I considered putting the public domain music I found and arranged into a vaudeville show with two pianos.  Two pianos were not out of the question as accompaniment in smaller towns on the vaudeville circuit and I've done enough duo piano and duet arrangements that it made sense to score it that way.  But then I started to think that a vaudeville show would be somewhat limited.  To do it right, there'd have to be some comedy routines and a juggler or dog act.  That reduces the music to 6 to 8 people singing and/or dancing for 10 to 15 minutes each.  And while I enjoy arranging for pianos, I decided that I've already done that.

Thus, things changed.  I started grouping songs so there'd be a sequence of ragtime songs and not-ragtime songs, song and dance, inventions (songs about cars, telephones and movies), The Great War, prohibition, music from theater (George Cohan, Jerome Kern, Eubie Blake, and a song by the great female impressionist of his day, Julian Eltinge), blues and such.  For a reason that now escapes me, I borrowed some books on orchestrating.  I found one called "The Sound of Broadway Music," not so much a how to as a book about the legendary orchestrators.  And then, behold, "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Arranging and Orchestrating."  Well.  The title said it all.  And it was quite good.  Thorough and I didn't feel I needed a master's to get started.  

And with that, the concept of the evening changed, so that now it's kind of "Ain't Misbehavin'" but bigger.  I want 8 singers (4/4), at least two each to be dancers, but all of them are expected to be able to at least move with music.  Since this is a pretend production, I also want the swings and understudies to be part of the few large production numbers (like they are in the opening audition of "A Chorus Line").  

The orchestra needs 14 (or 15) musicians and a conductor.  The major disappointment is that I've limited myself to 4 violins and a plucked string bass.  String bass occasionally doubles on tuba.  One of  the violinists doubles on viola to give the limited section a little mellowness.  Two trumpets and a trombone.  Alto and tenor sax, clarinet, and flute, with flute also doubling on oboe.  The piano wafts from not being necessary to being an essential part of the number.  (The fights with the producer have been infuriating.  I'd love a larger pit orchestra, with more strings and more brass; additional musicians cost additional bucks, of course, so the producer is dragging his heels.)  (I can't tell the shrink that because he'd want to know who the producer is.  "Oh.  It's the other voice in my head."  He sometimes takes me too seriously as it is.)  We're negotiating over whether to have a drummer and percussionist or just a drummer.  (It's somewhat moot because, after all this time, I still can't figure out how to create the drum set stuff, but I put drum set and percussion lines on the score, just in case it comes to me.)

I really, truly do understand that none of this will see the light of day (or the light of a music stand).  Ain't nobody in Harrisburg who'll put on a show that doesn't already have a New York reputation.  But orchestrating is fascinating.  I've done a few very small ensembles, but this is cool...writing with the same musicians in mind and trying to think of neat things to have them do while not overpowering the singer.  When to use everybody and when to use just the piano.  My shrink assures me I'm not nuts.  I like his attitude, but at times I wonder.  This hasn't become an obsession, but it's been a great way to spend evenings.

Hope summer is going well for you.  Take good care.

d

Dirt Racin'

After my parents got tired of going to Rocky Springs Park every Saturday night (see below), they decided it was time to make one of my father's dreams come true...own and race a stock car.  Every weekend we lugged the car (usually a 1930 or '31 Ford coupe) on the top of a large flatbed and trundled off to Lincoln Speedway (near Hanover, PA) on Friday nights, Lancaster Speedway on Saturday nights, and Mason-Dixon Speedway (near Rising Sun, MD) on Sunday afternoons.  The US may have had NASCAR, but WE had the Penn-Mar Racing Association.  My father, my uncle and two of my father's friends were the mechanics.  We hired drivers.  The first was not aggressive and was replaced by a far better (and much more handsome) driver.  By the 5th year, we had captured #1 in the championship rankings, which apparently was the goal because we never raced again.

Our farm bordered on a cemetery.  The leftover dirt from the graves was piled on our property with my father's permission (he ultimately gave a great deal of land to the cemetery, so the dirt piling was no big deal).  Racing fever pretty much bit a lot of the kids in Gap.  And one day, while mowing the yard, I had The Vision:  we'd convert the dirt piles into a race track for kids.  So we did.  With help, we sort-of leveled the mounds into a reasonable oval, although one turn was higher than the other.  This had its advantage when going downhill in that one didn't have to work to get to the next turn; on the other hand, one huffed and puffed up the hill after a few laps.

And so we raced.  Bikes, tricycles, wagons and scooters.  The aunt of one of the racers made a complete set of flags.  The flag person stood where a dead bush bordering the cemetery had been pulled out.  It was on the downhill straightaway, slightly above the racers.  The gravedigger was a little miffed at first, because he wasn't sure where to put the dirt leftover from the graves (people were still dying...rather inconsiderately, from my point of view).  That problem was soon solved and two summers were spent racing around the track whenever we all felt like it.  Two summers in hot afternoons.  Everyone was then invited to a cooling dip in our farm pond afterward.

In this litigious, child-proofed age, would such a thing still be possible?