Picnic Gone Very Wrong (Anxiety 2.0 Series)

picnicgonewrong

It was her idea.  She wanted to go on a picnic with Pappy (moi) and her six year old sister after we went to the “Iberry”.  She is three and this was her first picnic.  And, maybe her last.

I call it the picnic that went wrong.

She ran around so much her heel skin rubbing against her Ugg boots got irritated and a patch of tender skin tore off.  She screamed, “I want my Mommie!”  Ok. Ok.  We’ll just take the boot off and walk back to the car with one barefoot.  Screams ensued and more eye and nose liquid than I thought possible in one small human being.

I offered to take off my shoe and sock, so the both of us could walk back to the car with one barefoot.

The six year old sister yells out, “Pappy, you’re not going to show that toe, are you?”

(I’ve got a bad toe, ok?   I ‘ve learned to keep it covered up around small children.)

“O, boy,”  I say.  “How about I put my sock on your sister’s foot while you look away toward the library and then I’ll put my foot back into my shoe, sockless, but covered up?”

Deal.  It even made the three year old laugh a bit putting on Pappy’s sock but the laughter didn’t last because she insisted on putting her foot back into the offending Ugg boot.

“I want my mommie!”

“Me, too, honeychile.  Me, too.”

We set off toward the car.  The three old limped like her leg had been amputated. The six year old ran far ahead so there was no chance she’d catch sight of my toe.

When we got home, their mother opened the door and the screams started.

My screams not theirs.

How do parents do it?

The next day I dropped something off at their house and the three year old said, “No more picnics, Pappy!”

Deal, sweet girl.

©Pat Coakley 2009

The House Rebuilt

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Is it Groundhog Day, everyday, and we just don’t realize it?

The Peak House in Medfield, Massachusetts, was burned down in 1676 during King Philip’s War.  I drive by it on my way to Boston but only noticed it for the first time yesterday.

“King Philip’s War” was what the colonists and England named the uprising of Native Americans that took place fifty five years after the arrival of the Mayflower.  In that span of time the spreading settlements had brought diseases that depleted the Native American population as well as tribal lands being taken and herds of British cattle grazing in each settlement over land once used for the Native American corn crops.  In case you may not put two and two together (like me), cattle grazing on land used for corn means the end of corn.  You couldn’t survive a steer trampling on top of you either.

The disappearing land as well as Indian culture ( add those religious zealots trying to convert “the natives” to the war mix, too) led to the expanding British settlements and domination and was described by the man who led the war in this way,  “I am determined not to live until I have no country.”

He was nicknamed “King Philip” by the British settlers, according to a summary of the war written by Michael Tougias because of his “haughty” ways.

His father, Massasoit, on the other hand, had not been deemed ‘haughty” as he was the leader of the tribe of Indians living in Plymouth when the first British settlers arrived and famously helped them survive that first harsh winter.

As the saying goes: “Honey, no good deed goes unpunished.”

Fifty five years later, his father and brother dead, the uprising began with attacks on settlements by the son of this Chief who had helped the British survive and prosper.

It began with two tribes, the Wampanoags and the Nipmucks, but their ranks were widened when the colonists began attacking large, non-warring tribes like the Narrangansett Indians in Rhode Island.  Following a massacre of this tribe in southern Rhode Island,  they joined “King Philip’s War” and were responsible for the burning down of the original “Peak House” and a line of other settlements along this main corridor to Boston.

The war ended because King Philip’s Indians were simply depleted in rank– ironically enough, some from starvation following a severe winter and others due to devastating attacks on war camps themselves.  King Philip and his remaining warriors returned to their home near Swansea and, with the assistance of a tip from an Indian traitor, his location became known and shortly thereafter, his death by gunshot.

The house that was rebuilt in 1680 was also apparently built with funds which one could view in modern terms as part of a “bailout”.  The sign in front of the property says this: “Seth Clark, the owner of the house, received indemnity from the colonial government and in 1680 rebuilt the present Peak House, so called because of its architecture.”

Indemnity, (thank you Wikepedia) is : An indemnity is a sum paid by A to B by way of compensation for a particular loss suffered by B. The indemnifying party (A) may or may not be responsible for the loss suffered by the indemnified party (B). Forms of indemnity include cash payments, repairs, replacement, and reinstatement.

Today, I’m realizing that on one’s journey to Boston, it may just be the road surface and architecture that changes over the years, not human nature.

If I see history’s shadow on March 28th, does that mean there is six more weeks of winter?

©Pat Coakley 2009

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Windows on the World

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If I had money to burn, I’d hire an architect to design a house for me, art to put in it, and an interior decorator.

I’d tell the architect to look at this garage/horsebarn/spaceship part of a historical home in the next town to me.

It makes me smile every time I go by it.  Horses lived there first– automobiles, next.  Then, by the look of the porthole windows, I think the owner had a fondness for the sea or spaceships.

I’d tell the architect to build me a house that makes a passerby stop, smile, and then continue on with his journey.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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Dermatology

dermatologist

I’ve been unable to get a dermatology appointment in New England.

Dermatologists apparently don’t like your ordinary skin eruptions any longer.

Oh, no.

It’s got to be one of those cosemtic procedures that medical insurance doesn’t pay for but vanity does.

If I had one of those, I’d be seen this afternoon.

I don’t need THAT.

Yet.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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PRESS CONFERENCE PLAYGROUND

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The President of the United States held an hour long news conference last night.  It was the only television I watched.  I did not listen to any cable pre-conference or post-conference.

A correspondent questioned why he had let two days go by, after finding out about the AIG bonus information, before sharing  his”outrage” with the nation.  The clear implication being: there appeared to be something disingenuous about the President’s “delayed” reaction.  .

President Obamat listened to the correspondent phrase the question in his best faux  “just the facts” way  several times, and then, The President simply responded after a puase, “I like to know what I’m talking about before I speak.”

I don’t think anyone’s going to be taking the President’s lunch money on the playground anytime soon.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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©Pat Coakley 2009

Returning to Perch

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I took Don’s advice and flew around the neighborhood and then came back to perch in my tree.  I am there on the upper right clump of branches.  See me?

As Epic would say, I’m looking a bit squidgy. (Better word than pudgy, don’t you think?)

While flying over Route 495  I thought about Bonnie’s words from Thoreau about the necessity of owls: ” stark twilight, unsatisfied thoughts”.

So, for now, I have flown back to the same dead tree and, instead of blue sky, I bring my blind spot.

This is what it sees today.

If you are very, very quiet, you can hear what a blind spot sounds like.  Shhh.

“Hoot.  Hoot”

Yep, it’s a multi-media blog here at singleforareason.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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Going Owl

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Light is beginning to dawn on me (as well as this tree) that this tree silhouette that I’m so fond of is actually a silhouette of dead branches not just a bare tree in winter and early spring.

I’ve been coming here since late Fall and thought the leaves had just fallen off remarkably evenly.  Scientist, I’m not–this is clear.

It interests me this odd gap in observation that I have.  This blind spot, I’ll call it, amidst a rather 360 degree steadily revolving head turning this way and that throughout the day.

Odd.  Me, the professional observer, can totally miss the point.

The properties of this tree, its essential truth, I missed.  It’s shape and the possibilities of the sky painting the background was all I needed to know in order to photograph it.

I am suspicious now of this blind spot in my field of vision.  It is one of my core traits as I’ve come to find out from these past three seasons of discontent in America, the world, and my world.

There are times when this trait fits the chaos and allows for modification of expectations and the ability to grind on with equanimity, but at other times, it just makes me feel like, “Wow. I’m clueless.”

I’m going to act as if.  In fact, I’m going “owl”.

Easily spooked, I take to the air suddenly and head west.

O, wait.  American’s already done that.  In fact, I did that back in 1967 when I moved to San Francisco.

So, maybe I’ll just head west, circle slowly over Medway and Bellingham like I know what the hell I’m doing and then come back to my favorite dead tree when night falls.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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Moving From Abundance to Pandemic

northamerican2

Peggy Noonan, a former speechwriter for Ronald Reagan (Challenger explosion, most memorable, “slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God”) writes for the Wall Street Journal and a week ago wrote about a type of depression and anxiety she senses in the country that doesn’t have an appropriate pharmaceutical as a remedy.

People are buying more guns, she reports–going to church more and increasingly reporting to at least one mental health provider that they are depressed and anxious.

She talked to bankers, psychiatrists, writers, friends and hears fear.   Not the white knuckle variety of last Fall she observes but the drip drip drip of realizing that an era has ended and is not coming back.

After listening to a psychiatrist talk about how when we move into a new home we always realize the importance of our previous environment, Ms. Noonan called our present home, “PostPosterity” and our old home, “Abundance”.  The psychiatrist called it a “psychological pandemic of fear”.

Yikes.  I was feeling…well, fearful before I read that but now? I’ve got to rewrite my series on fear to “Fear, The Pandemic”? Wait a moment while I try to beat back the pandemic.  I’m going to go and reread the Challenger speech.

(cue Jeopardy music)

Ok. I’m back. So, before you go out and buy a gun, or go to church (god forbid) or steal my little blue pills, let me point out that Peggy might want to do two things.

One: reread her old speeches.

“The future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave.”

And, I’d just add this one little addition: it belongs to the brave and to those with a sense of humor. (I’ve only got the latter going for me)

Then, Ms. Noonan, I’d suggest one more thing: watch Obama on Leno.

The President is cleary not fainthearted AND he’s got a sense of humor.

Two for two.

RX for Pandemic: Watch tape of this show once a day with meals until further notice.

Or, if your readers don’t care for Leno (clearing throat sound) then how about suggesting that they might want to think about a photo of Mrs. Obama planting herbs and veggies on the White House lawn on their frig. She’s better looking than that one of Bernie Madoff with a target on his forehead and it makes us ol’ fear’d up girls and boys calm down.

Who knows, maybe these prescriptions could reduce overall faintheartedness,  Smith and Wesson’s sales, and save our arthritic knees from too much of that church kneelin’ and swayin’.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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First Truck of Spring

firsttruckofspring

I was asked this morning by a man on the phone helping me fill out forms for a new financial account, matter of factly, “Are you alive?”

“Excuse me, ” I said, thinking, “Nah, he didn’t just ask me if I was alive, did he?”  We’d already been talking for at least 10 minutes.

“Are you alive?” He repeatedly this question matter of factly.

Oh, thank you, I said, for reminding me.  And, for a moment I laughed so hard, birds flew from the nearby tree outside my window.

I photographed this truck, the first (regular readers know they’ll be seeing more.  Sorry, Nkgee) of this first day of Spring.

As it appears to glide into the clouds, I felt something as it passed by me.  I clicked the shutter and felt it–a vibration from its weight on the nearby road, I wondered?  It’s ghostly appearance, maybe, had triggered something?

Whatever it is, it’s proof I’m alive.

It’s official, too, because the correct box has been checked on the form.

Alive in my own unique way, too–waiting in industrial parks in the early morning, hoping to capture trucks and skies.

We all celebrate winter’s end in our own way.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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License to Create

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The state of Massachusetts no longer sends notices for driver license renewal and, consequently, I’ve been blithely driving around with an expired license for almost two months.

I’m sure this was a cost cutting measure but, let’s face it, gingko and Siberian gingsen can only perk our memory cells just so far.  Who is going to remember a six year renewal date?

The commonwealth is going to have thousands of drivers driving on expired licenses AND they won’t have the $40 dollar renewal fee in the state coffers, either.

My license to create never runs out, though.  It renews itself with each act of creation and they haven’t figured out a way to charge a fee for that so far–although if I sell one of my “creations”, Massachusetts sales tax does apply.  I’ve tried to argue that artists are really in the service industry (which does not get taxed), but so far, no luck.

There’s an interesting discussion about photography and believability over at Photos4u2c ( as well as some great photographs)  and here’s my contribution to the trickery of belief: the original of this photograph, taken this morning, can be seen on my hometown blog called My Franklin.

Chime in on the subject, like the birdies, if you wish.

©Pat Coakley 2009

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