The American Can

Every can along the road I feel a duty to inspect
And I sadly must report that some I must reject
For though they're billed as rest rooms, there is no room to rest
And as for cleanliness and comfort they'd never pass the test

You'll find no unused paper, clean towels you cannot see
Yet crumpled used towel litter there will always be
The pot won't flush, the sink won't drain, still we must confess
That even here, sometimes, we're pleased to be a guest

For tho there is no place to rest and the room's a total pit
It can seem a shining palace, 'cause there is a place to sit
We drop upon the throne and sigh, "Life's simple pleasures are the best"
For after all, nature's urgent call wasn't bidding us to rest

Mashing an Old Cliche'

For the past couple of weeks, an old cliche' has been running through my head like a refrain from a song sometimes does. Over and over. I'm so tired of it clanging about in there that I decided to see if writing about it will banish it. Maybe it will transfer to yours!

The maddening phrase is - to the manor born. This, of course, refers back to feudal times, when the lord and his family lived in the big house, the manor, in relative luxury and the serfs lived in comparative squalor on the land the lord owned. The phrase specifically indicated a person was born to wealth, luxury, aristocracy, to superiority -- or acted as such.

A few years ago, a friend asked me to proof-read an article in which she had used the phrase, which I guessed she'd heard, but not read, as she used to the manner born. Her usage intrigued me. In her context, it conveyed a similar meaning, but in another context it could convey a different meaning. Manor, in the phrase, has more specificity than manner. You could use to the manner born in another context to indicate a similarity to any behavior. For instance, a rude girl whose mother is known to be rude, could be said to be to the manner born.

It isn't as though I have occasion to use either phrase often, so why is this bouncing around my cranial regions! Begone! Begone! Banishment!

Coffee Break?

I snagged this from between the walls. It dates back, waaay back. But here, shaken a bit to remove the dust, it is.

Beverly sighed as she filled the coffee maker with water, closed the lid gently, and sighed again. Was it for this she had worked so diligently in college?

She hadn't taken "Coffee Making 101." Should have, though. Should have taken "Shopping for the Boss' Relatives and Friends," too. And what about "Running Personal Errands for the Boss?"

Apparently, she, an honors student, hadn't gone to the right school. Seems all of the really important courses, like coffee making, for succeeding in the business world were lacking from her university's curriculum.

Sucking her lower lip behind her upper teeth, Beverly grabbed the coffee can, pulled off the lid, scooped out some coffee, and dumped it into the coffee maker. There. Two scoops - the boss likes it made with two scoops. Releasing her lip, she dumped in another. Then with malice in her heart, she dumped in two more before setting the pot to perk.

Back at her desk, she fidgeted as she tried to concentrate. Soon she was interrupted by the inter-office phone. Picking it up, she made a conscious effort to moderate her voice before pleasantly inquiring, "Yes?"

"The coffee ready yet? I really need a cup. Oh, and run down to the bakery. I would kill for a Danish. Pick up a half dozen. When George arrives for our conference, we'll have Danish and coffee. Give us a few minutes, then bring in the coffee and rolls. But first, bring me a cup right now."

Beverly fought the urge to be sarcastic and won, merely answering, "Right," and set the phone down.

Taking a cup from the little cabinet above the coffee pot, she slammed it on the counter and sloshed some coffee into it. Grimly grabbing a paper towel, she mopped up the overflow before it reached the edge of the counter. Placing the cup and a napkin on a tray, she carried it into the inner office.

The boss didn't even look up, just reached for the coffee. Beverly turned on her heel to leave. She had nearly reached the door when she heard the boss choke and sputter.

"This coffee is terrible! Just awful!"

Beverly turned around and with wide, innocent eyes asked sweetly, "You don't like the coffee?"

"It's terrible! Awful! Dump this and brew another pot!"

"Oh, I don't think I can do it any better," said Beverly. "I just don't think I can do it any better. Maybe you should make it. I'll bet you make great coffee. After all, you are a woman, Mrs. Henderson."

Making History!

On Monday of this week, I helped make history! Doesn't that sound impressive? Well, I'm afraid full disclosure brings it down a notch or two - at least regarding my participation.

My part consisted mostly of sleeping or lingering somewhere between sleep and LaLa Land due to an Altru Hospital Cocktail Special. I need to tell you "cocktail special" is my name for the dyes and relaxants used in the Cath Procedure Lab. You may feel as though you've been awake through the entire procedure, but it is likely you've been sleeping at least part of the time and definite that you've been in LaLa Land whenever awake.

The Cath Procedure Lab is where angiogram and heart stent procedures take place. No, this wasn't the first time I've experienced the joys of that lab. In fact, I teased the young cardiologist performing the heart cath and stent placement I had about six weeks ago that I'd been through caths more often than he'd done them. He laughed at that idea and indicated he was older than I thought.

He actually is older than he looks, but I believe my remark about his youthful appearance prompted him to sprout a 'stash. This week he brushed a finger across the 'stash and asked me if he looked older, so I feel fairly confident the little under-nose growth is a result of my comment.

But that is not addressing the historical quality of the latest experience. On Monday the same youthful cardiologist and I met in the Cath Lab again. This time it was for the purpose of restoring circulation to my right leg by opening an extensive occlusion of the artery. Part of this procedure is fairly routine (if any arterial procedure can be called routine), but part of it used a laser inserted through the artery followed by insertion of stents. A laser small enough to insert through an artery and nimble enough to manipulate from the point of insertion is incredible to me!

The laser machine was ordered basically to do my procedure; it was new and a couple of company reps were gowned up and present to witness the event. Additionally, the procedure was revolutionary for this area - the first done in Grand Forks and the doctor also said he thought it was the very first in the state of North Dakota.

That's making history! And I was part of it. But as usual, I probably slept through the most important parts.

A footnote: The procedure went well; it was declared a success. I'm doing well, but very tired (probably due to the cocktail I mentioned as this was a lengthy procedure and I know I got a lot of that cocktail). I'm still moving quite slowly, but since it was done on Monday and this is Wednesday, even that is good progress.

A second footnote: You guessed it. If progress continues in this vein (pun), that young cardiologist and I will be meeting in the Cath Lab soon to repair the circulation to my left leg. This will not be an historical first, but still exciting to me. I pine for the ability to take long walks and for that I need two good legs.

Sherack

Sherack is a real place, a little country neighborhood, just a bump in the road as country folk say. The photo in the "Ghost of Sherack" posting below is truly of Sherack but edited to seem dark and ghostly. Here are some daylight photos to show that it is a quiet little bump in the road, not a threatening place at all.

The Ghost of Sherack

"Never drive through Sherack when the night is full black,
'Cause there's a ghost who wanders that road,
And when you drive through Sherack, he gets in the back
By methods completely unknown."

She spoke of Sherack, fielding laughter and flak,
Gravely warning her friends and her foes.
Hearing nothing but cracks from that wretched pack,
She continued to make sure they'd know.

Yes, she knew of Sherack and its ghostly trap.
Yet one night when hard-pressed for time,
Though the night was full black, she drove through Sherack
And told herself all would be fine.

But the ghost of Sherack appeared in the back,
And tho she heard but a wheeze and a groan,
Her muscles went slack; it got wet where she sat
'Cause she knew she wasn't alone.

As the ghost of Sherack sat there in back
And he spoke about dying and death,
Her eyes slowly tracked to the seat in the back,
Then the eyes of the ghost and hers -- met.

Her arm reached back and she gave him a whack,
Then threw back her head in a yell.
And the ghost of Sherack flew out of the back:
'Twas the worst he'd heard this side of hell!

So scared in Sherack, she'll never go back -
And even now her hair remains curled.
And the ghost of Sherack? He'll never be back
'Cause SHE frightened HIM right out of this world!

Malik Awakens at Malgray Keep (Malik Story)

Malik Awakens at Malgary Keep

This is an excerpt from a longer story:

Awakened by the sound of the door latch, Malik stirred. Without rising to his feet, he lifted his head and softly whined deep in his throat. Still after all this time, about a half-year by his reckoning, waking up in a dog's body was a shock.

The door opened and a slight female servant slipped in. She always entered like a ghost, silently and almost floating, and exited with even more care, cracking the door slightly, peering out, then quickly gliding away. Malik wondered if the young woman had been forbidden to visit with him and if she feared reprisal.

Whatever the case, she was a bright spot in a lonely existence, and he was glad she visited. His golden brown eyes followed her movements as she checked his water dish. When she knelt beside him, wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his ruff, his tail thumped on his bed mat.

"Maliya, my friend," she whispered as her hand slid down his back smoothing his silky, rufous hair. While she silently continued to caress his back, Malik relaxed and half closed his eyes. Yes, he thought, a dog definitely did enjoy a few advantages.

Suddenly, Malik's ears perked up and the servant froze, her hand halfway down his back. An audible, quickly-in-drawn breath and rounded eyes betrayed her fear as excited voices and running footsteps advanced from deeper in the caverns. After the noise passed and receded in the direction of the keep, her eyes relaxed and she began breathing again. Shakily she arose from the floor, glided to the door, inched it open, and carefully peered out. Apparently seeing nothing, she inhaled deeply and widened the opening just enough to allow egress. Just as she was slipping out, a faint voice yelled. Malik knew the sound came from a distance, even perhaps, from an upper level of the caverns, but the servant jerked and then sprinted away as though chased by the ghost she herself resembled.

Malik stood in the doorway watching the fleeing form and wondered what caused such fear in the young woman. True, in the half-year he had been here, he had neither seen nor heard such commotion in the tunnels, but why react with terror? As she turned a corner, he marveled at how quickly she had disappeared down the corridor. Corridor! He was looking down the corridor! She had left his cell door open!

In his excitement, Malik nearly barked into the empty passageway, then reined in the urge and quickly looked to his left. Good. No one there. He nudged the door leaving it just slightly ajar, trotted across the room to look at his geaster, and raised himself up against the wall. No. He mustn't waste any time; he already knew he could not reach it. He dropped to all fours. Here was his opportunity, the chance he'd been awaiting, and now he did not know what to do with it. He needed time to think!