Scar

      Author: Aaron Collins

       

     Appendix 

      The latex gloved hand slowly presses into my side with unrestrained force and holds its position momentarily, only to release the pressure instantaneously, which ironically is when the real pain floods in, like the point of a knife driving into deeply embedded tissue under the skin. The doctor observes my yelp of despair and says, “Yep, it’s an Appendicitis.” This is probably the fifth time that little diagnostic test has been performed since getting admitted to the hospital five hours ago. I’m sitting in a small cubicle with a curtain as a door for privacy in the ER of Good Samaritan Hospital. Each time a new doctor or whoever comes in it seems like they do the same test and each time after I scream in pain they say the same thing, “Yep it’s probably an appendicitis”. After the longest day of my life, a doctor finally gives the green light and decides it’s time to do surgery. The procedure is called an Appendectomy and it’s pretty simple. If the appendix gets inflamed, you run the risk of it literally exploding inside of you and killing you which is why it’s a priority to get that shit out of there as soon as possible. I’m just now seeing a parallel to Ridley Scott’s Alien. I moan in pain as my ten year old self is rushed through the florescent lit hallways in a wheel chair. And for a moment I see myself. I feel like I’m watching the situation as an observer and I’m terrified but then the strangest feeling: I feel somewhat exhilarated in the fact that something is happening to me. All those movies I’d seen where people undergo medical procedures in a place like this; all the episode of ER my parents used to watch. I was one of those people now. I’d have to stay home from school. My parents would have to take care of me and show my tender, loving care and nurturing. I would have an excuse to lay on my butt and rest and watch movies all day long. I could say, “yeah they put me down and cut me open!” And to this day it still kind of excites me to tell the story and to show my scar on the bottom right portion of abdomen. 

Topic: A Scar

Author: Chris Dunn

“No, it was the Tower of London,” James insists. “Arms and armor.”

“You could not be more wrong,” I protest. “It was Artists of the Baroque period. Rubens and Caravaggio. Giant pictures of curvy women. I remember distinctly.”

“You were in the back seat of a VW Rabbit, and Christy hit a patch of ice-”

“You’re right about the car, but there was no ice. It had just started raining, and you told Christy – who was driving on her learner’s permit, as I recall – to go easy around that big turn up by the WPA wall. She took her foot of the gas and put it on the break, and that’s what caused the whole thing. Technically, it’s all your fault.”

This is not the first time James and I have had this argument. James is one of my oldest and dearest. He sat two seats behind me in our Freshman homerun at Roger Bacon High School, but the common denominator of our shared nerdom bypassed Dan Floyd’s superfluousness and we quickly became fast friends. I’ve got lots of stories with him in them. The time we bowled into Lake Michigan… Nervous parties with friends of friends… Drunken wanderings through the streets of Chicago… Cooking popcorn in the toaster… The list is endless, but this story concerns how I got this scar on my shin, and it starts like this…

I’m standing in a large gallery - you know, with those high, echoey ceilings you find only in museums – staring at a naked woman whose curvy buttocks are easily bigger than my head. All around me are similar works by various baroque artists, but I’m having a hard time enjoying it – even to the point I typically enjoy art, which isn’t much – because I’ve got a wad of paper towels stuffed inside my sock and blood oozing into my shoe. I flag for James’ attention and when he glances my way I mouth, “Can we go?” while tapping my calculator watch. No dice. We came all this way, and there are still another five or six galleries to see, which – thanks to the nature of artistic periods – all contain paintings that look relatively the same. With a melodramatic sigh, using my whole body so James can't claim he missed my frustration, I give up and go looking for a bench. This is all his fault!

I mean, technically his kid sister Christy was driving. That was part of the deal. We could take one of the Geers’ family cars, provided we let Christy use the opportunity to get some practice in for her driving test. We agreed, jokingly teasing at the great risk we were taking, putting our life in the hands of a ditzy girl. Then again, who was I to tease anyone? I wouldn’t get my driver’s license until many years later, and under shady circumstances at that. The teasing was largely familial for James and maybe a bit flirtatious on my part. No one really thought anything would happen.

And nothing did. Not for the first 93% of the journey anyway. I sat crammed in the back seat of the VW while James gave directions and suggestions which his sister mostly followed and occasionally mocked. Then, just as we were approaching the Cincinnati Art Museum which resides on one of Cincinnati seven hills, namely Mt. Adams, it started to rain. The road up the hill is as curvy as a baroque woman’s backside including one major curve of nearly 200 degrees. As Christy approached the dangerous stretch of road, and I was distracted looking for the WPA plaque which adorns the adjacent, retaining wall, James cautioned his charge, “Now be careful. This spot can be tricky when it’s slick like this.” Christy dutifully removed her foot from the gas and placed it lightly on the break, but at just that instant a man appeared in the road waving his arms. Two cars had already failed to navigate the turn and their conjoined front ends sat sprawled across the middle of the road. The waving man was trying to warn us, and Christy complied by slamming on the breaks. The wheels locked, and we slid right past the flailing man – thankfully – and straight into the two wrecked vehicles. 

I was thrown against James’ seat - since I never could be bothered to wear a seatbelt when seated in the back. The VW bug – like most VW Bugs even in the late 80s - was old, and a small lever under the seat was missing the little rubber covering which was meant to keep the metal end from turning into a sharp protuberance during a collision. This small, round post with the sharp edges ran up my shin and then punched through my pants, my sock and my skin at the moment of impact, leaving a perfect, circular puncture wound about a half centimeter in diameter behind in its wake. 

The bug was totaled, and my injury was deemed too minor to bother the cops with. A tow truck arrived for the vehicle while Christy cried herself out of a ticket, and forgoing all reason, we went to show. I played it tough, limping up the hill to stuff my sock with paper towels while assuring my friends it was only a scratch. But the scar remained, and the story was told for years as a cautionary tale about the dangers of young driving and the hazards of circumstance.

As I prepared to type this tale out for this week’s submission, I bared my leg before my sister.

“I can’t see anything,” she said.

Looking down, I couldn’t blame her. Other than an odd patch of slightly less hairy skin, there was nothing to see. Then, I messaged James to confirm that it was just us three in the car. He agreed we were a trio, but insisted there was a patch of ice and that the exhibit was of arms and armor and not the period where – as my art teacher had said – “Fat was where it was at!” But I remember the paintings, Christy’s scream, and the man’s flailing arms… The powerful impact as sudden deceleration pancaked me against the passenger seat... I see it all in my mind, as clear as the mark on my skin. Running my hand along the flesh, I can feel it. At least, I think that’s it…

Topic: A Show.

Topic: A Show

“We’re all born naked, and the rest is drag.”-RuPaul Charles

I attended my first drag show in the spring of 1986.  I was 21 years old and finishing up my junior year at Miami University.  My most serious boyfriend to date and I had broken up a couple months before and I was still struggling with the fallout and sense of failure from the breakup.  Ray, a guy I dated in high school, was living in Tampa, Florida with his boyfriend, Phillip.  We had stayed friends though the years, and he offered to let me stay at his place if we could make the 20+ hour drive to Florida.  Ray had come out to me tearfully on the phone a couple years prior.  He had composed a letter about his sexuality and I remember there was some phrasing in it indicating that he understood if I didn’t want to be his friend anymore now that his secret was out.  It made me sad that this was a very real fear for him, that he might be rejected simply for being himself.   And it still makes me sad that anyone has to face judgment, ridicule, and even discrimination today for the same reason.  

My friend Daryn agreed to ride down with me.  It was a sweet deal for him.  He got a spring break trip for free and I had someone fun to share the drive with.  Okay, and I had a crush on him too, but he wasn’t interested in anything more than friendship.  And that was okay.  Fresh from a bad breakup I thought what I needed most was a change in scenery.  

The second night at Ray and Phillip’s place they informed us we would be going to a club, a gay club.  I was entranced with the idea and felt pretty hip.  I had no idea what to wear and I can’t remember what I did end up wearing.  What I do remember was that there were very few women there, and the bartender said, “Sweetheart, are you lost?”  I told him I was there with my friends and motioned to the guys.  He nodded approvingly, as if in that case it was okay to be there.  It kind of reminded me of the way I felt many years later when I met my friend at a bar in which I was the only white person in the room.  I got a few stares that seemed to say, “What are you doing in here?” But once my friend came in and hugged me and made a joke about me being late, it seemed I was in and it was all good.   The bartender carded me before serving me a bottled wine cooler.  Yes, I’m embarrassed to say that was my drink of choice back then.  I also remember hundreds of men dancing. Together.  Men holding hands.  Men kissing.  I remember Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” the dance mix version blaring.  And I remember dancing till the sweat was rolling down my face.  Ray told me I should save some energy for the show.  The show?  What show?  “You’ll see,” he said.   

I don’t remember the drag queen’s name and I didn’t understand until halfway through the song that the performer was a man.  I just thought it was a beautiful woman in a glamorous gown lip syncing to a Tina Turner song.  I was so naive and midwestern they had to explain to me that this was a drag show and then they had to explain to me what it was.  There were about five performers total and each one did a couple numbers.  People went up and gave them tips.  I was too shy at the time to tip, but that was back then.  

And now I’m a 53 year old married lady with grown children, and I’ve been to dozens of drag shows.  Some are for charity-like The Rubi Girls-a troupe of amateur drag queens from Dayton, Ohio who have raised tens of thousands of dollars for AIDS research.  Some drag shows are just for fun at various clubs around where I live.  When I’m on vacation depending on the locale I look for a drag show.  I recently drove two hours to Columbus because my friend was having a Tupperware party hosted by a drag queen.  This week my husband and I went to Las Vegas for a medical conference for his work.  True to form I found a drag show, not just any drag show, but a review put on by stars from RuPaul’s Drag Race.  This was drag royalty, and we had purchased the VIP package which meant a photo-op with the cast after the show.  I was as excited as  I imagine as my sports-loving family and friends are when they get to meet their favorite player.  

Why do I love drag so much?  And I realize I don’t need to justify WHY.  No one says to my sister who’s a Reds fanatic, “Why do you love baseball so much?”  She just loves it cause she loves it.  But I was thinking about it last night after meeting the stars of RuPaul’s Drag Race.  I was so star struck and excited. Why do I love it? I think it’s an art form, an illusion.  And it’s fun.  The humor, the bawdiness, the banter between the emcee and the audience are all part of the draw.  And I always tip these days.  A drag queen will gladly take your money.  It doesn’t matter if you’re an old straight lady.  The tip is an endorsement, a way to show your appreciation for all the hard work it takes to complete the transformation.  It takes a lot of time and planning to dress up like a woman even when you were born a woman.  I appreciate drag even more in my older years because I have alopecia, medical hair loss, that has progressed over the years to the degree that I am totally bald on the top of my head.   If I go out in public without a wig I am sometimes referred to as “sir” even though I’m shorter than most men I know and my body type is decided round and female.  So I put my wigs and my makeup on every day because I want to look “like a girl”.  It makes me feel pretty.  When a drag queen loses her wig during a performance which sometimes happens accidentally but more often than not happens intentionally, I feel such a sense of solidarity with the performer.  I want to say, “Girl, I know.  I’m wearing my wig too and nobody knows.” I do a transformation every day of my life.  I’m getting ready for my own personal drag show when I leave my house.  And I guess we all do that to some extent.  Some transformations just take a little more effort.   

Topic: A show

Author: Chris Dunn

The lights are still up, and the crowd continues its slow, staggered entry, filing to their chairs or stopping to converse with discovered friends, already seated. Pre-show music rides above it all, setting the mood for the event to come. Others crowd the lobby area, checking the display for faces they know or have at least seen before. But me, I’m already seated. I have no need to chat with friends now. I’m busy, busy scanning the periphery of the house for telltale sign of trouble.

Unless you’ve worked a show, you won’t know what to look for. At a show, an emergency isn’t like a fire alarm. There aren’t bells and whistles, no screaming sirens, but you’ll know for certain that something has gone horribly awry, if you see someone dressed in black, wearing a headset, and walking fast. You don’t run. You never run. You stand bolt upright with a forced smile, and you do that quick, shuffly step. As soon as I see that, I know something isn’t right. A player has missed call or disappeared on a smoke break. A prop is out of place, or the curtain rope has snapped two feet from the ceiling. Look for it the next time you find yourself at the theater. The straighter the spine, the quicker the shuffle – the worse the issue at hand.

The first show my mother roped me into, I thought I’d get by just being the assistant director. You know, get my feet wet, test the waters see if showbiz was for me. But no, as tech week drew to a close, and I looked forward to returning to my normal gaming schedule, she came to me and asked, “Okay, so do you want to work sound or props?” She liked to lay traps like that. She was a lawyer in her previous life. Note how the questions seems to offer options, but they’re both options wherein – no matter what I decide – I’m doing something she wants. “Go home and play video games,” was not an option. And, to be honest, I was actually enjoying the production side of things. I wanted to see how the show ran after all our hard work.

First thing I learned about working the property, I was never actually going to get to see the show. Not like the audience would. I was viewing it from the side most of the time. That is when I wasn’t crawling behind the set to make the lightning effects or dealing with the sheer, amazing volume of liquid coming off the stage. It seemed like every scene they were drinking something. By the second show, I knew to have a lined trash can handy to dump everything into, in a vain effort at keeping my prop area as dry as possible.

Other than dealing with liquids and making sure every prop is where the actors expect it to be, I had about half dozen jobs during the performance. Now that doesn’t sound like a lot, but they were all very precise events. If the lightning doesn’t flash on the cue, then Abby, working the sound, can’t make the thunder. If you don’t cross the stage, before the inspector enters, you’ll be seen in your cross because the door to the manor is still standing open. When the actors flub a line or miss a cue, they always shake it off with a casual nonchalance, but when the crew messes up, it’s like you are part of a vast conspiracy to trip them up and embarrass them. Even the slightest slip, you’re going to hear about it.

And this show was cursed. We had a sick lead actress nearly passing out backstage. At one crucial point, I looked across the stage and noticed our soon-to-be, murdered, wealthy uncle was not standing in the wing awaiting his cue. After shuffling through the six-inch gap behind the back curtain (the door was open) and climbing into a spiral staircase from the very wrongest side (the set was built up against the staircase), I found him studying lines in the basement. He knew from the rod in my spine that he had fucked up! But the show’s. potential worst fuck up was mine.

Every night, the heroine of our tale was attacked offstage. A loud thump and a scream would proceed a flurry of action and concern on stage, and this effect was mine to create. “Just take the large suitcase, lift it up, and when Shannon screams, drop it.” Seemed easy enough and for the first two shows, it worked like a charm. The old suitcase was easily 9 cubic feet and filled with old clothes. It made a satisfying *whomp* every time it hit the ground. I have no idea how it played to the house, but backstage it was thunderous. Dropping the case, quickly became my favorite part, it was like I was in the show. It was my only line. Then, the third night, when the bag hit the stage, the old latches along the back gave out and lid separated completely, spilling a pile of unwanted, hand-me-downs all over the floor. Shannon’s scream was followed by a hopefully-silent, shocked inhalation, and – to its credit – my mind went immediately to work. “Okay,” I thought staring down at the shattered prop. “When does that thing need to be back on stage?”

Five minutes. Or less. At Shannon’s next entrance, she has to march out on stage WITH HER LUGGAGE and declare that she’s leaving the manor. Lucky for me, we were offstage, so no silent running was required, but it was still a mad dash of a sort, as I dropped to my knees with a tape gun and tried desperately to restore the shattered suitcase to some semblance of its former function. I got it sealed and taped shut, but when I looked around for the tape gun to add a second layer of security to my shaky, slapdash effort, the tape gun was missing! “Where is it?! I just had it! It has to be here!” All this panicked screaming was internal, of course, but in my head, I’m going mad. Shannon put a hand on my shoulder, “It’s fine. I’ll go easy with it. Relax. It’s going to be fine.” Then she hefted the flimsy repair job and marched out to face the audience.

I could do nothing but clench my teeth and stare, just waiting for the single strip of tape holding the massive case together to fail and flood the stage with my failure, but it holds. The scene concludes. No one’s the wiser. No one knows the razor’s edge a show runs along though its production. Not if the crew is doing its job. So, I watch them looking for signs of trouble, applauding thunderously in my mind when they succeed. Mustn’t disturb the show.

BTW, the tape gun was inside the suitcase.

Topic: Music

Topic: Music

I’ve spent over 25 years of my life working in nursing homes. My first nursing job was working nights as a floor nurse in a secured Alzheimer’s unit in 1991.  From there I moved into management and with my current work as a nursing home surveyor I spend a good chunk of my waking hours in a setting that a lot of people see as depressing.  But it’s not all bad.  

In 2014 I was working as the Director of Nursing for a skilled nursing facility in Cincinnati.  That fall a documentary called “Alive Inside” came out.  I went to opening night at the Mariemont Theater and had to share the space with about a dozen others.  It was just as well, cause I cried like a baby throughout the film, which shares the story of the “Music and Memory” movement in America’s nursing homes.  A social worker in New York got this idea that if you took an iPod Shuffle and loaded it with music from a nursing home resident’s past and you introduced that music back into that person’s life you could effect a dramatic change.  I left the theater inspired.  We had to try that at my nursing home.  

I convinced my boss to let me buy a few iPods.  Initially he felt that it was something the activity department should do, but they weren’t jazzed about it like I was.  I finally told him that if the facility didn’t want to pay for them, I’d buy them myself.  He relented.  

Our first “test subject” was a 86 year old lady named Shirley with end stage dementia.  She hadn’t spoken in years.  She was incontinent and had to be fed and dressed and bathed. After breakfast the aides would wheel her Geri chair, which is basically a big recliner on wheels into the lounge by the window.  She would people watch, at least that’s what it looked she was doing.  She seemed to follow passers-by with her eyes.  We had called her daughters to find out what her favorite genre of music was when she was young.  Gospel music was their answer given without hesitation.  “What’s her favorite song?” I asked.  I learned from the movie that this was a very important question, because the personalized playlist on the iPod had to be meaningful to that person.  You couldn’t just pick some popular songs that were age appropriate, because maybe that wasn’t that person’s jam.  Shirley’s favorite song according to her daughter was “The Old Rugged Cross.”  The night before I loaded Shirley’s iPod with gospel tunes from my music library.  We used cushioned headphones instead of ear buds, because most seniors seemed to be more comfortable and familiar with them.  Putting anything INTO the ears of a dementia resident could frighten the person.  There was something to the notion of playing the music through headphones as opposed to just setting the person next to a boom box and playing it for them.  When you listen to music through headphones it blocks out everything and it’s as if the music is coming from someplace inside of you.  

My assistant Director of Nursing was skeptical about the whole thing.  I made the nursing management team watch the movie.  In morning meeting I laid Shirley’s shiny new iPod on the conference room table.  “Who wants to go with me and see how she likes this?”  A few of them joined me.  My assistant told me not to feel bad if we didn’t get a strong reaction from her like they did with the people in “Alive Inside.”   We went upstairs to the lounge about 10:00 A.M., and Shirley was up and dressed.  I decided to start with Whitney Houston’s version of “I Go to the Rock”, a gospel standard, which features the lyrics, “Where do I go when there’s nobody left to turn to and who do I talk to when no one wants to listen?  I go to the Rock of my salvation. . . When the earth all around me is sinking sand on Christ the solid rock I stand.  When I need a shelter, when I need a friend, I go to the Rock.”  The pink cushioned headphones matched Shirley’s floral night gown.  I placed them over her short grey afro and pressed play.  Her eyes flew open, and I feared at first that we had frightened her, but then she began to bob her head in time.  She started to vocalize.  You couldn’t really call it singing, and she didn’t make intelligible words.  I’d call it making a joyful noise.  And then tears ran down her face.  And I realized that I was crying too.  My assistant said, “Oh my God,  you were right.”  

I couldn’t wait to try one on my next “subject”, Joe, a man in his fifties who had suffered a traumatic brain injury about five years prior that had rendered him paralyzed.  I thought it was from an accident but some of the long term staff told me he had been in a bar fight, and that he  had lived a hard fast party life before ending up at the nursing home for his final years.  I heard he died of pneumonia in 2016, and when I got the news, I was glad that we had given him back “his music” for the final years of his life.  His girlfriend said Joe liked classic rock and that his favorite song was “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Oyster Cult.  

More people joined us when we played the earphones on Joe.  After seeing Shirley’s response to the music staff started making lists of people we thought we could draw out with an iPod and the right playlist.   Joe didn’t sing when we started playing his song, but he did start banging his hand on the armrests of his wheelchair.  And instead of his eyes flying open he closed them tightly shut as if to block us out.  One of the aides came up beside him and touched his shoulder, “What do you think, JoJo?  How do you like that music?”  Joe put up his hand as if to say, “I’m here inside my music, and I do not wish to be disturbed.”  

In the movie they said the part of the brain that interprets music is the most enduring even in the face of dementing illnesses and brain injuries.   I have my iPod loaded and when I’m a 98 year old demented old lady in a nursing home I want them to play “I Melt With You” by Modern English or anything by The Cure or Depeche Mode.  I think they’d be able to reach me, no matter how far into myself I may have retreated by that time.  

Working in nursing homes isn’t so depressing after all.  Some days you get to reach inside and make a connection.  Some days you get to touch someone’s very soul.   

Music

          Author: Aaron Collins 

        

     

         While sitting in my underwear drinking coffee this morning, I put on a record my grandpa gave to me years ago: Delius' North Country Sketches. I was about to grab my phone to start reading about Delius and the context of the piece until i remembered that I was listening to a vinyl LP and like all old recordings, there was an entire article written on the back of the record sleeve designed to give the listener some context and background of the composer and piece of music. I realized that classical music was meant to hear while listening with undivided attention. It was written and performed to capture your imagination; to take you somewhere else. It was not an accompaniment to a visual; it was both the sound and the visual together. Hence why so many composers have specific places and visuals in mind for their compositions (North Country Sketches or the English countryside in Northern England). The listener is urged to imagine the context/image/scene/setting in which the music will elaborate. I only now seem to be realizing that when I'm listening to a recording of a classical piece, it may be only one interpretation many times removed from the composer. I have to remember, this isn't them I'm hearing. This isn't their recording. It's not like Delius went into the studio for a session. He imagined it all, visualized it and then transcribed it into a tedious format of notation which is truly the official record of the song. A piece of paper with notations doesn't make any sound. Thus the only true record we have of the piece exists inside of the mind of the composer.  All recordings of it then are merely interpretations. All performances too, are interpretations. Until recently music was inextricably tied to live performance. One couldn't hear music except to be in the room hearing the musicians perform it. And I say room loosely. The setting of where the piece would be performed and how many musicians, the instruments to be played, was as much a part of the song as the actual content. Chamber music was meant to be played in a...chamber? A smaller space. Symphonies were meant to be played in huge concert halls in which the concept of "stereo" was invented. Fifty or so musicians spread out laterally to blast you with sounds that hit your 180 degree periphery but also reverberate behind you making it a 360 degree experience technically. Music and live performance were inextricably linked. Instead of going to see a movie on a screen while the music plays as accompaniment, the music WAS the visual! It's a theater of the imagination. 

     At this point I'd almost finished my coffee and realized I should probably put some pants on but then I read that it was written by some guy who personally knew the composer and even helped transcribe while the composer was blind and paralyzed. Wow. How often I hear recordings of music as opposed to being present for a live performance; how silly it must be then, to feel so much pressure in recording my own songs and making the "definitive version" of the song. That many many incarnations of the song will exist. Every time it is performed, it can continue to evolve and morph and change. Damn. I need to get more live music in my life!

Topic: Music

I'm an emotional guy. It is easy to "get" me, to set me to crying. Here and there a tear will fall when I see something beautiful. But when the time comes in a Mass to sing, "I am the Bread of Life..." I'm a gigantic mess.

You see, "I am the Bread of Life" is a beautiful song. I love it. But it's been ruined for me. I've heard it and sung it in too many funerals. The refrain has a glorious build, "And He will raise you up-- and He will raise you up-- and He will raise you up on the last Day!" I suggest you listen to it. It is just plain moving.

But I can't stand to sing it. In the TV show Angel, the Angel gang goes to sing karaoke in order to have their auras and futures read by a demon, Lorne. Wesley, I believe, explains that when you sing you bear your soul and Lorne could read it.

I began to the dread Bread of Life as my beloved Aunt started to slip away. Aunt Mary Ellen, my father's sister, was one of my favorite people in the world. She'd survived Breast Cancer and her hysterectomy. I'd seen her most recently in the October of 2004 as I swung through DC to Rhode Island and back again. I had the feeling I was seeing her for the last time. Early in 2006, with my Angie in St. Louis, I got the call that I'd better get to DC- this was going to be the last time to see her. And in every Boyle funeral, we sung Bread of Life.

She had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer five years before and been given three years to live. She was still all there, undaunted. It was still hard to look. I pushed the truth away.

I had one last conversation with her- she knew she would not make it to my wedding, but promised she'd be there. She got me.

She died in May. I sat in the crypt church of the Basilica Shrine of the Immaculate Conception as we celebrated her funeral mass. I prayed as I leafed through the program, praying the Boyle tradition of using Bread of Life. Oh, shit. There it was.

The intro played. The soloist sung beautifully and I tried to sing along. "I am the bread of--" and my voice broke. That song was performed at the funerals of my grandfather, my grandmother, and I'd even sung it in choir over the casket of a 12 year old. I don't know how much of the song I spent weeping. It was probably most of it.


I had been numb for so long, having to sing, having to bear my soul, it made the moment that much more difficult, but I pushed through, weeping, singing, slumping.

The years have shown my ire for the song diminish, but the last time I heard it, as an "offering of gifts" song, I still could not sing it all.

Music can remind you of anything. But that song is just rough for me.

Topic: Music

Author: Chris Dunn

Christmas time always meant driving. We’d pile in the car to visit Uncle Bobby and Aunt Glenda. We’d drive to pick the largest tree we could afford, strap it to the roof, then watch dad cuss up a storm trying to put together the tree stand. We’d drive all over the neighborhood and the nicer neighborhoods searching for the best Christmas displays. We’d drive Uncle Ed and Aunt Lee’s on Christmas morning, leaving all our gifts from Santa sitting barely touched, the sheen of anticipation still clinging to them.  And everywhere we drove, we would sing.

I don’t know if every family did this, I always assumed growing up that my family was normal, but as the years compound the evidence, I find there are many activities we engaged in which were well outside the norm. For example, we would sing Christmas carols in the car to pass the time as a group. Each member of the family would have a turn and get to pick a song, and then we’d all merrily join our voices together. Dad’s deep sonorous baritone, mom often providing the harmony, and all three of us kids belting out as best we could from the back seat. As students in catholic school, we all sang in church and what we might have lacked in training, we made up for with enthusiasm.

We kids would mostly choose songs about Rudolph and Frosty, or a church song we knew like Hark the Herald Angels Sing or Oh, Come All Ye Faithful, while our parents would typically stick to songs from their work in the church choir. Occasionally my dad would pick a song I didn’t know. One of my least favorites was a song called, Lo How a Rose E’er Blooming. I don’t know if you know this song, but is so NOT, Here Comes Santa Claus. I would sulk in the back groaning in protest while mom and dad took their turn with it. But by and large, we all sang together, and the many miles of holiday driving melted into a musical montage.

Then, a teenager happened, and it was me. Around 11 or 12, I started being too old for the kid’s songs and too cool for the church songs and too awkward to trust my own voice. The singing would still go on, but I found myself sitting in the back trying not to listen and hoping we could just get to our destination already. It was the same songs every trip - in practically the same order, and the same songs as last year, and the year before that. I was so over and above it all, or so I pretended to be. The real reason, of course, was that I could no longer trust my voice. It didn’t sound right even to me, and when I did sing, my mother would comment, “Oh, your voice sounds so different. Everybody listen, Chris’ voice is changing.” Better not to be heard at all than to be the object of such acute observation.

And so, I went for years in silence. Listening as my very musical family continued to sing it up every chance they got. If you’ve ever been to a Dunn family birthday, you’ll find our rendition of the birthday song second to none. Carols in the car faded as the family grew older, but there were still plenty of opportunities for song. My parents continued to sing in the choir for years, and my sister, Bridgid, had voice lessons in the living room and took her amazing talent to State Fairs and school musicals.

But not for me, I couldn’t sing. I still loved music, and once I eventually learned to drive, I found that belting out songs in the car was just as fun in the front seat as it had been in the back, just as long as no passengers were around to hear it. I toiled in obscurity this way for twenty years. Until the day I found Rock Band.

Let me explain… First there was Guitar Hero, which let people play out their air guitar fantasies to a small list of hits on a plastic vertical version of a game we used to call, back in my day, Simon. Follow the colors on screen, hit the notes in time and the crowd would cheer. Very engaging!  A brief craze followed, and part of that video game genre, was a game called Rock Band. Which took things to the next level, a drum machine and bass were added to the mix and even a microphone for vocals. You could get together with your friends and pretend to be rockstars. Of course, each song someone had to take a turn on the mic.

We were all down at Curtis’. My turn at the drums had passed, and I wanted to move things along, so I could get back to try them again as soon as possible, so I downed another beer and volunteered to try singing, and to my great surprise, I was good, better than any of my friends. I was soon upping the difficulty to medium and then hard and still the meter belied my greatest fears. I was no longer that awkward teenager, and like most in my family, I could carry a tune. People had told me over the years, “Chris your voice is alright.” Or “No, really you sing fine.” But I had never believed it. It took science to convince me. That was 11 years ago, and I’m still playing this game. I have over 2000 songs in every genre of music and I can sing them all. My score is in the top 20 out of thousands of players. I’m a singer, like my mother and father before me. At least in the privacy of my own home.

Topic: Autumn

Author: Chris Dunn

Every year I wait with tense anticipation for the temperatures to drop and for the leaves to begin to change color, when I can wrap myself in the comforting embrace of my trusty leather jacket, perhaps a hat to shield my now balding pate. Summer is nothing but skin and sweat, and Spring is all itchy eyes and sneezing. Winter is too much of a good thing, locking you behind doors, nesting around heaters and thermal vents until the thaw finally comes. But Fall… Fall is my season!

These days in the heyday of social media, I endure numerous posts of complaint as the mercury dips lower and lower, all the while laughing to myself with giddy delight. Finally, the boorish nightmare of repetitive, relentless, smoldering summer days is coming to an end! Though given my chosen locale, I usually have to endure several “Indian” summers and false starts before the true season arrives in full swing. The trick is to watch the leaves, not the thermostat. A cool day here or there is nothing, but a bright red leaf, crackling and dry, whipping at the end of an empty branch in a chill wind is the true herald of autumn, and my personal invitation to actually venture outside my cave for a couple brief months before the ice comes.

I walk through my neighborhood my cheeks alive and red. No matter my pace, sweat isn’t needed to cool my skin. Everything is in perfect equilibrium. Days of hot drinks and warm clothes, and even the welcoming return of life as you step from a brisk walk into a heated house and a comforting warmth spreads through your bones. Skating at the edge of oblivion only to return to life, over and over again, as the tingling fire fills you like a deep, expanding breath.

For a brief time, my family had its own cabin in the woods, and each of us children was granted two weeks to use it for whatever we wished. I chose to try to start a tradition, inviting a host of friends to come and spend two weeks with me there in early October. My mother balked at first when I showed her my dates. “Really?” she asked. “That’s peak rental season, but… Okay, sure.” Though the place was huge, I invited far more people than could fit. My theory being, we would find a place for all who came, and that most people wouldn’t stay the whole two weeks. They would come and go as their schedules allowed, and then each year we would return and bask in the beauty of the forest covered mountains, eating and drinking together, sharing times and building stories, a yearly retreat. It was a beautiful dream.

The reality was far more pedestrian on most fronts. Despite exceedingly advanced notice, no one could make it to the first outing save for my then roommates Kit and Frank. We made a game go of it. Indulging in a wide array of mind-altering distractions while enjoying our time away from the patterns and responsibilities of our daily lives. Even Frank had to return after one week, but Kit stayed with me throughout, helping me live out a weak pantomime of my vision. We spent most of the days playing video games before venturing into town for supplies. Soaking in the hot tub or basking in the sauna, by turns. We talked of trails and whitewater rafting but neither of us was the adventurous type. Sitting on the porch and seeing a mother bear pass by with her cubs was more than enough outdoors for us both.

When the time came, as we prepared to pack up Scarlett, my 92 Nissan Sentra, and limp back to civilization and normalcy, I stood on the porch one last time. The view was tremendous. It took in a large swath of the Smokies. I’d been watching Fall’s path since our arrival when the view had been nothing but a sea of green. On the second day a tiny patch of red had appeared lower down close to the city. I tracked its progress as it spread like the simulation of a replicating virus of shifting colors across the whole of the range. As I beheld the autumnal tapestry and drew the chill air deep into my lungs, I counted the trip a success despite the low turnout, and I looked forward to coming back over many years, each time with a new mix of my friends and family. Let them partake of this retreat. Let them soak in this beauty. Next year would be bigger and better!

But next year was full of responsibilities and obligations. Jobs became careers. Friends got married and had children. My annual Run to the Hills Retreat, never became a thing.  Recently, some kids were playing with matches, and along with 14 lives, 2,500 homes were lost. Our lodge was one of those homes. It was weeks before someone could get through the disaster area and bring us grim pictures of the sad sight. Half a wall and clean foundation were all that remained.

Topic: Vacation

Author: Chris Dunn

Carefully following all the directions, I place the ballot inside the envelope made out with particular caution not to leave even a character out of place. I don’t want them to have any excuses. Not this time. But in the end I shrug, if they want to steal it, they’ll steal it. There’s really nothing I can do short of raising arms against the state, and I’m too old and too much a coward for anything like that. I have to rely on the integrity of the system, and hope this time the wisdom of the masses overcomes their usual apathy. I want so very much for this country to disprove the lie of the last two years, the thought that we are a bigoted, xenophobic, sexist culture, that we have forgotten all the lessons we learned as a nation in my youth and backslid farther than in my worst nightmares… The possibility is too awful to contemplate, so I screw my hope to the sticking place and hand the envelope to Jill. She’ll place it along with her own in the mail at her work and that will be one less thing to worry about. We have to get all our ducks in a row. It’s almost time for our vacation.

Vacations are meant to be relaxing getaways, but for me the lead up is nothing but stress, and the worst kinds of stress; worrying about what will come, missed connections, forgotten documents, being stranded. I can never truly unwind until we’ve reached our destination. This year is particularly stressful because, we’re going overseas to Paris, which means leaving our home behind and so many levels comfort it’s hard to truly fathom. So many things to organize; Aaron to watch the house, my team to cover my contractors at work, all my games put on hiatus. I want the house clean before I leave. I want to leave no food to spoil in the fridge. And, since this trip comes so close to election day, I need to vote absentee before we leave. I would hate to miss my flight and so miss my chance to announce my feeble opposition to this war on basic human decency.

Why Paris? Twenty-five years ago fresh out of college, I threw caution to the wind, quit my new job, and journeyed across Europe with a pair of friends for an entire month, riding the rails through seven countries, staying in tiny hostels, eating lightly and learning the value and power of my own two feet. If you’ve been a follower of my stories, you’ve heard several of my favorite anecdotes already. It was one of the greatest trips I ever took, and it changed the way I see the world. At age 50, I found I needed a refresher.

The first time, Drew had been our guide. He had already spent years in Europe. He had friends in France, Spain, Luxembourg… He was fluent in French and passable in Spanish. And he knew all the tricks, where to find cheap lodging, how to recognize and avoid the tourist traps, how to navigate the Eurorail system and the Paris Metro. We would’ve been lost without him, and I owe him a debt for taking on the herculean task of seeing us all the way home without ever losing it at our naivete and helplessness. But this time, I’m the guide. This time, the trip is my idea, and - not only do I have to navigate myself around a city I can barely communicate with - but I also have to look after Jill. I spend the months leading up to the journey brushing up on a year of college French on Duo Linguo, and in the end panic and buy a translation app. I don’t want to be stranded with no way to communicate. I don’t want to be looked down on as the boorish American who can’t even bother to learn say, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language,” while travelling abroad. All my effort and panic proves unnecessary. So many people speak English in France now. I barely got to ask before they were helping me. The people were very friendly and eagerly helpful. Mostly… Sure there was the cabbie who double charged us and the desperate sketch artists on Montmartre who wouldn’t take no for an answer, but they were exceptions. Even when an Uber driver claimed to not speak English, more often than not, we possessed enough common ground to complete the transaction and even share some humor.

Then on day three it hit me. Why I had had to go back… What I needed to relearn... Everyone needs to visit a foreign country, to go somewhere where you are the minority, where you do not speak the language, where you are an outsider just there because you heard it was a wonderful place and hoped to share in its bounty and beauty. Put yourself in the position of needing others, feel that dependency and then feel the warmth of the connection when someone reaches through the barriers that divide us and helps you just to be decent, just because it would hurt them to see you left lost and confused; in pain. Language is not the way we communicate. It is just a tool that makes it easier. Months of study, and I believe I used my French three times where it made a difference, and even then it was a minor difference meaningful really only to me.

How can you say America is the greatest country with any conviction, if you’ve never seen another one? How can you tout America’s greatness when you have nothing to compare it to? Take a chance! Step outside your prison of preconceptions and misinformation and go and experience the world that’s out there. You’ll find it far more inviting than you expect. The journey may takes hours by plane or sea, but open yourself up to new experiences, and I guarantee it will be worth it. Take a vacation from yourself.

Topic: Autumn

Topic: Autumn

Miami University was made for autumn.  With its red brick buildings and tree lined walkways it looks like the movie set for every college film set in the Midwest.  In the fall of my freshman year, 1983, it was a particularly gorgeous fall day.  You didn’t need a coat--a sweater would do just fine.

 I was walking from my dorm to the dining hall for lunch in late October.  After lunch I was going to walk to the performing arts building for my weekly voice lesson.   I don’t know where I got the idea, but I thought I might sing better if I dressed up a bit for my lesson.  I wore a blue knee length cotton dress with small pink flowers and a broad white lace collar.  The skirt flared out a bit and it came with a belt in the same floral as the dress.  I remember checking my look in the full-length mirror we had hanging on the back of the door to our tiny dorm room, and thinking that the belt was a good touch. I thought it nipped in my waist nicely and gave me the hourglass effect I was going for.  Back then I had thick pretty reddish-brown hair with feathered bangs.  Before I headed out, I sprayed a little Aqua Net on my bangs and touched up my lips with Bonne Bell lip smacker Dr. Pepper flavor.  I smiled at my reflection.  I felt pretty.

To get to the dining hall I had to walk past the freshman boy’s dorm.  Some guys on one of the upper floors had their speakers in the windows blasting “Photograph” by Def Leppard.  I hummed along and stepped lightly in my blue flats.  I crunched some leaves intentionally as I walked.  I had struggled with feeling homesick since I had started college a few months back.  But on this day, I felt so collegiate, like maybe this was where I belonged.  It was fall and I was doing well in my classes.  The air was crisp, but not too cold.  I smiled at the world.

Then the music stopped and I heard one of the boys from the dorm yell, “Lose about fifty pounds.  Then you’d look halfway decent, bitch.” 

Who could they be talking to?  I looked behind and beside me and saw no one.  Then he repeated the taunt.  I didn’t look up.  I tried not to speed up.  I tried to pretend I didn’t hear what he said.  Then a different voice began to make sounds like a pig.  I felt a tear escape from my left eye.  Then a voice in my head, I think it was my mom’s, saying, “Do not let these motherfuckers see you cry.”  I kept walking and focused on keeping my pace as steady and light as before.  I crunched a few more leaves. 

“I know you hear me.  Yeah, I’m talking to you,” he called out.  I thought about yelling back or flipping him off, but I heard my mom’s voice again telling me, “Do not dignify any of this with a response.”  I made it past the back of the dorm and ate lunch.  I went to my voice lesson.  The next time I went to my voice lesson I wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.

I wonder if those boys remember this day like I do.  I wonder if they have wives.  Or daughters.  And I wonder if a perfect autumn day brings it to their remembrance. 

Autumn by Thom Dunn

Topic- Autumn (written by Thom Dunn)

 

I’m from New England. 

New England is a riot of color in the fall.

I ask my fifty-three year old daughter, “Have you been to New England in autumn?”

“No,” she says, “I’ve never been to New England in autumn.”

Actually, outside on Hollywood Avenue in Cincinnati leaves are turning in bunches. 

Down by the Cape after the homecoming dance Edna Tenney comes up to me.  “Feel me, “she says, her bathing suit dripping from a quick dip in Buzzard’s Bay.  I refrain. Dumb high school fool.  On the way back, Ralph and Madeleine get to play-fighting, and Ralph nearly runs into a tree.  I shout, “Look out, Ralph” in a sharp desperate voice.  It may be the most important thing I ever did in my life.  The laughter in the wagon goes on.  The moment goes on.  We continue to consume beer, no hard stuff.  Not I, of course.  As per a promise I made to my sister I never drink.  The year is 1956.  Looking back I find it strange that there is no marijuana, at least none that I ever saw in Milton High.  Oh, but there is the dance, and the Cape, more beer than Ralph should drink, Madeleine’s inattention.

We cruise past Hyannisport and into the miracle that is autumn, and beside me the miracle that is Edna.

“Feel me, “she says, “Feel me.” 

Topic: Vacation

Topic: Vacation

One of my late mother’s many gifts was her ability to make the mundane seem special.  My dad was a college English professor and she was trudging through law school with three kids under the age of ten.  I know now that she didn’t like being in the house by herself at night.  Back then when my dad had to teach a Wednesday night class she would declare that we would have a “Dad’s Not Here” party.  We got to stay up late and watch the Sonny and Cher show.  She’d make popcorn-on the stove-this was the early seventies so we hadn’t heard of microwave popcorn, or even microwaves.  She’d buy a one quart glass bottle of Coke that we’d split three ways between mom, my brother Chris, and me.  My baby brother Marty was too little at the time to appreciate what a rare treat it was for us to have soda.

Mom would “move” the leftovers in an innovative way.  She’d tell us to sit in the dining room and then she’d appear with an apron tied around her waist as she welcomed us to “Dee’s Café.” 

“Good evening, miss.  May I offer you a cocktail to start with?  We have milk, water, and apple juice.”

Then she’d list the chef’s selections for us and would jot down our “order” on a little notepad.  We loved it. 

She even made the task of cleaning my room seem exciting.  Mom’s angle was that we would pretend we worked for the Red Cross.  My room was the site of a terrible tornado and we had to get everything cleaned up and ready so “the people” could come back home.  I bought into her vision and cleaned with unusual gusto for an eight year old. 

Once a month she and dad would sit at the dining room table to balance their checkbook and pay their bills old school style.  They handwrote checks and stuffed them into envelopes.  They took their paper bank statement and reconciled it to their check ledger-stuff my kids no nothing about.  There were no ATMS, debit cards, or electronic banking. When I asked what they were doing mom said they were playing a game called “Oh Shit” and that only grownups could play it.  All I knew was that if my mom did it, I wanted to play too. 

But probably her greatest feat was making us feel like a trip to Peebles, Ohio and on up to Toledo, Ohio was a luxury vacation.  She started by talking up the big vacation weeks ahead of time.  She made a countdown calendar on the kitchen fridge.  I proudly told the neighborhood kids that I wouldn’t be available for the next few days.  I was going on vacation.  I never went to the beach or a resort as a kid.  I still haven’t been to Disneyland or Disney World.  I didn’t ride on a plane until I was in my thirties.  I was in my forties when I went on my first cruise, and it was just this year at age 53 that I finally traveled outside of the U.S.  Our big vacation involved all three of us kids and my parents traveling in a station wagon to the Indian burial mound in Peebles.  Then we drove up to Toledo and stayed two nights in Howard Johnson hotel, all of us in one big room.  We dined at the L&K Family restaurant and went to the Toledo Zoo and the Toledo Museum of Art.  I remember it as one of my favorite vacations. 

What made it great, what made so many of my childhood memories great was my mom’s enthusiasm.  No matter what crap was thrown in mom’s path she managed to make it into a party, a game, or an adventure.  Now that I’m older I realize money was tight for my parents during those days.  By a lot of people’s standards we weren’t well off.  But when I think back on my childhood, I remember feeling unbelievably rich.