Saturday, June 30, 2007

Williamson Creek

1. Prelude

White clouds floated across a blue summer sky, today. In the morning, a cool breeze blew out of the south. The sun threw down spots of brightness dancing on the lawn. In the afternoon the coolness was gone, and the spots no longer so much danced as hammered down upon us. Our hair grew hot; sweat ran down our cheeks. When evening came and the sun approached the hills, we went for a hike along Williamson Creek.

Behind a shopping center, the trail left the roadside at an acute angle and dropped into a seemingly untouched part of Central Texas. Water from the recent rains pooled in dark places beneath the Oaks and Elms, but whereas two days ago it ran across the trail, today our shoes stayed dry.

2. Crossing the Creek

Across a little bridge and a narrow street leading into a neighborhood newly carved from this place, the trail took us down to the creek. There were horse shoe tracks here and limestone boulders strewn to the left and right. And there were dry snags of flotsam some six feet high caught in the trees from some past flood. Today, the creek ran shallow and clear.

Two days ago, the current was swifter and just deep enough (calf-high) that we decided to turn back, but today we could step across the stones in its bed without getting wet and staying out of the mud. We climbed the opposite bank, leaving the creek behind us, emerging back into the woodland meadow.

We didn't really know where we were going, but we followed the trail, and we wondered where it would lead.

3. The Sound of Falling Water

Can you hear that? I asked.

I stood still. Trudy stodd still. Guinness stood still.

Can you hear it? I asked as I pointed to the woods. The gentle sound of falling water was coming from the trees.

She nodded, and we turned to continue along the trail.

Then I looked back at the woods and squinted to see what I could see. It was mostly dark in there, and the Juniper trees at the margin spread out daunting claws, but as I looked closer, it seemed that just beyond those Junipers the thicket thinned and the undergrowth cleared.

Wait, I said.

4. A Cathedral in the Woods

Let's go in there and find the waterfall.

So we turned off the trail, walking thru the knee-high grass, pushing aside the Juniper branches that had seemed so threatening, and walking into the trees.

Wow, I said, hoping Trudy was close behind. Look at this!

I was at a loss for words. Wow, I said again.

It was as if we had entered a cathedral. The canopy lifted. The Junipers stepped back. Oaks held out their branches above us. The light of day dimmed, filtered thru the canopy.

Ahead of us, Williamson Creek spread across a flat limestone shelf, flowing wide and shallow, filling the frequent fissures in the rock, running around periodic stones. And here at our feet, the shelf dropped, and the water fell over white rock and green moss, making the music that we heard from the trail.

It was getting late. The sun was going down. It was time to go home.

We promised that we'd be back.

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 Thursday, June 28, 2007

The Doctor in the Room

The city is lit up magnificently outside the hospital room window. There's only an indirect florescent light on in here, so it's pretty dim, although it's just bright enough that when the nurses come in they mercifully don't turn on the overhead lights.

A new nurse comes in after a while and looks at his computer, then looks at me, and then looks up at the IV pole that has been disconnected all day.

I'll be coming in later this evening to start a drip, he says.

I look up at the pole. Trudy and my brother look over at him in surprise.

Why? my brother asks.

The nurse isn't quite sure how to answer that question. He looks at Ben and then at me and then at the laptop in front of him as if he's thinking, because the computer says to.

Those are the orders, he says.

Why? my brother asks.

The nurse looks back at the laptop. A potassium drip, he says.

Why? my brother asks, and he identifies himself as my brother and a family doctor from Chicago. Is his potassium low?

The nurse looks back at the laptop and then concedes that he doesn't know and that he'll find out. He leaves the room. When he comes back he says something about how my most recent blood tests (There haven't been many, frankly.) do not show low potassium.

There's a moment's silence in the room.

Well that doesn't sound right, my brother says.

The nurse quickly agrees.

They never did start the IV. And we never did find out how the order appeared on the computer in the first place. I'm just glad for the doctor in the room, because I'm not convinced the exchange would have been as brief when Trudy started asking questions, which she was clearly poised to do as the doctor spoke up.

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 Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Tuesday Evening

1. Out Shopping

Trudy decided that we needed supplies for tomorrow. Snacks for the recovering patient. Toilet paper because, well, you know. And doggie treats. The dog treats requirement always tilts the scales. It was almost 9pm, but she went anyway.

Peaceful shopping? the clerk asked her.

Why yes! she said.

Yep. Tuesday nights at Target, the clerk replied.

2. Bringing It Home

The dog first noticed her return, as he always does. And of course, there were treats involved. He barked loudly, and then I heard the front door open. It went something like this.

bark, Bark, BARK!

[sound of door opening]

Hello little doggie! I'm home.

Troooodie's home! I shouted from my chair in the study. It's a standard greeting around here, but this time something went wrong: on the extended oooo, I peed in my pants.

The physical therapist says that if I follow her workout regimen, that will go away in three to six months. I guess I need to reign rein in the standard greeting in the meantime.

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 Monday, June 25, 2007

Getting Vertical

1. The Preparation

Nurse Paul came in and asked everyone to leave the room. It was the day after my surgery, and he was going to get me vertical.

I get very light-headed, I warned him. I have been thru this enough times to know what happens and to know that nurses like to know ahead of time if there might be trouble.

He looked up at me with a blank stare and then smiled wryly. Oh, you'll get up alright. There was a tone in his voice and a look on his face that suggested he thought I was trying to back out.

He had me flatten the hospital bed. You won't have an angled bed at home, he said. Then he showed me how to roll onto my side, making sure I didn't touch the rail on the side of the bed. You won't have a rail, either. It seemed we were going to do this the hard way.

It took me a while, but I rolled over. A while longer and I managed to lower my legs slowly off the edge of the bed. Even longer and I got my torso upright. I could already feel some fuzziness, but I figured I could make it to the chair.

2. The Attempt

Paul had other thoughts. He had me stand, and as I stood there he began to roll my IV pole out for a walk. This took a while, and my fuzziness grew thicker, and ringing started in my ears. I think I said something about just sitting on the first try. He said not and started me in the direction of the door.

The fuzziness was thick. The ringing was loud. And I was getting hot. I knew that I didn't have much more time.

I need to sit down, I said, I'm going to black out. And I turned to the chair and lowered myself down. I bet my face was white.

I don't remember what Paul did. All I remember is soon the head nurse was in the room asking if I was sweating. Paul didn't check me, he just said, No he isn't. I was covered in cold sweat from head to toe.

Yes, I am sweating, I muttered. She felt my forehead. She said something like, Oh my, and in no time they had me hooked up to the blood pressure machine. I opened my eyes long enough to look up when it beeped -- it was 55 over something.

They had me sit in the chair a while, but things didn't get much better (although my blood pressure climbed to 76 over something). Soon I announced, I need to get back in bed. I guess the two of them helped me back onto bed. I don't really remember that, but I do remember lying my head back on the pillows and gratefully closing my eyes.

3. Afterwards

That's just not normal, Nurse Paul told me. You've got a neurological problem or a cardiac problem. You need to see a doctor. And he invited everyone from the hall back into the room, telling them that things had not gone well.

Trudy and my brother came in and sat near the bed. Was my dad there? Was Ben? I don't remember. My eyes were closed, although I do remember that Paul soon left the room.

He didn't believe me, I told my brother. The nurse didn't believe me when... and Nurse Paul walked back into the room, looking over at me.

I felt busted tattling on him, so I asked, So Paul, why do you think I had trouble? He came over to the bedside and repeated his diagnosis: I had a neurological or cardiac problem. It's just not normal to almost black out like that. My brother suggested an alternate explanation, but this didn't stop Paul's diagnosis, which he kept repeating over and over.

To his credit, I don't think my brother ever identified himself as a doctor. He was remarkably quiet for quite some time, and it wasn't until Paul's prognostications were grating on even me that my brother spoke firmly about other explanations in a tone that finally shut Paul up.

The next day, I was no longer on the morphine drip. And Nurse Mary Ann encouraged me to angle the bed way up high. And she told me to use the rails to pull myself over. And she said to start with I should just sit in the chair beside the bed.

I was walking in no time.

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Night Flower

A wild sunflower stands in the yard in the back, seven and a half feet tall with three palm-sized yellow blossoms at the top.

And even though it is night now and the yard is completely black, I know it is out there, soaking up the rains we've had, waiting for tomorrow's sun.

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 Friday, June 22, 2007

Tears Ran Down Our Faces

It had been three days since the surgery. Three days on a hospital bed hooked up by various kinds of plumbing to bags and pumps and beeping things. It was Thursday morning, and the doctors were making their rounds.

The surgeon came in the room carrying notebooks and charts in his arms. It was not so long ago that he was sitting behind his desk explaining the results of a biopsy to us, and now he seemed determined to tell us something equally blunt. His eyes were grim, and he stared straight ahead as he made his way into the room, not looking up, tossing his notebooks and charts onto a chair. The pathology results were back, he said.

He was avoiding eye contact. I steeled myself to bad news.

The cancer was contained completely in the prostate, he said. The nodes were negative, and the seminal vesicles were negative. And the surgical margins were completely negative. The pathology report showed a more aggressive cancer than had the biopsy, but the negative results suggested that he had removed it all.

He asked if we had questions, and I suppose we did, for I seem to remember he talked with us longer. But after a while there was nothing more for him to say, so he gathered his papers, smiled and left the room.

Trudy and I were momentarily quiet, and then we looked over at each other. As we tried to speak, tears ran down our faces.

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 Sunday, June 10, 2007


A bottle of water is sitting in front of me, and I know I should drink it. I'm full, although I'm hungry, and it just doesn't seem all that important to drink it right now, but Trudy will be coming around the corner soon, so I need to finish it pronto.

Somewhere in the surgery instructions, they must say that I need to hydrate well. Trudy read all that stuff, and I told myself I eventually would, but I haven't. She knows what she's talking about, and I've been a lame patient all day, so excuse me while I drink...

...ok. That done, let me tell you what I intended to say.

Bergamot! Lavender explosions of color lining the fence row in the backyard. Narrow toothy leaves on slender stems of green bending over from the weight of the blossoms. A blanket of fuzzy purple (if you'll let me group the color "lavender" into the category "purple", which has gotten me into trouble before). Look at them standing there!

This is my favorite time of the blooming year, when the Bergamot that Bill down the street gave us explodes for a few days and make it look like we actually know what we're doing in the garden. The blossoms might not be here when I get back from the hospital, and even if they are, I suspect I won't be wandering back there for a good while. So forgive me if I roll my eyes at the wonder of the Bergamot.

So what do you know, Trudy comes wandering around the corner just then, and I hold up my EMPTY bottle for her, expecting a word of praise or congratulations. But no, she comes around the corner bearing a great glass of water and three horrid tasting pills. Lucky thing that bottle was empty, that's all I can say. The hospital might have been admitting me earlier than I intended.

That is all, for a while.

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Pre-surgical Hunger

I'm not a particularly gentle man to be around when I'm hungry. I wonder if they realized that at the hospital. My last allowed meal was this morning, migas with cheese and corn tortilla, but the anti-biotics they have me on where making me queasy then, and I left a dollop of refried beans on my plate, something I have never done before.

Lunch was pudding, which filled me up fine but of course didn't last, and as that was the last non-clear-liquid food I was able to have, I now find myself hungry and correspondingly grouchy.

So the rest of the household are in the dining room listening to jazz and playing Scrabble, and I'm along in this cave typing out last minute emails for work and generally trying to make the hunger go away.

The sad thing is this: it's only now 10:00pm, and the surgery isn't until after noon tomorrow. There's a long way to go between now and then. I'll try to behave. Wish me luck. Wish the rest of the household luck!

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 Saturday, June 9, 2007

Preadmission Stories

These are nine micro-stories from my first trip to the hospital in preparation for impending surgery. Don't expect the earth to shake on these. If you're in a rush, just skip to the bottom and read the last three lines.

1. Registration

After a ham and cheese sandwich and chips at Red River Cafe, I walked to St. David's. It was a hot, sunny afternoon, and by the time I got to admissions, my shirt was wet from sweat.

They gave me a number, #34, to protect my privacy, and pointed me to the waiting room. Sitting as far from the blaring television as I could, I pulled out my book and buried my face in it. I didn't have long to read.

"Number thirty-four," a woman called out from a doorway. I raised my hand and packed up my stuff. Once she saw me, she assumed a blank stare in a different direction and began reciting some pre-scripted set of instructions telling me which booth to sit in and that she would be there in a moment. I was two feet away from her, and she was standing erect staring into the void giving these instructions as if someone had wound her up. And first I thought she was joking. She wasn't.

2. Paperwork

In booth 3, I surrendered everything: my driver's license, my insurance card, my charge card and (I bit my tongue) my social security number. "I have a ton of paperwork for you," she said. But it wasn't a ton, and she gave me back the slip of paper with my SSN on it as soon as she'd entered it into the computer, telling me to destroy it for my privacy, and she spoke to me directly not into the void, so I started smiling again.

$25,000. That's what they figure it will cost. And that doesn't include the doctors and labs. I'm blessed with good insurance, but nevertheless I leaned toward her and said, "Mighty expensive procedure, don't you think?" She agreed and then asked me to check all the data she had on a computer form.

The form looked good to me, so she fastened a blue paper bracelet around me wrist and pointed me back to the waiting area.

3. At the Laboratory

Someone came and got me before long. I didn't even have time to read more than a paragraph or two -- this time by name.

"I'm David, again?" I asked. "No number?"

She laughed. "You're David, again."

She led me to the laboratory -- waiting room #2, where I sat down and took out my book and picked up where I had left off.

4. Urine Test

The woman next to me said something about how I had been waiting a long time. I hadn't. Her name was Anita, and her husband was being pre-admitted for gall bladder surgery. They were from Elroy, real Texans from the sound of her voice and the smile on her face.

A nurse came to get me before our conversation went anywhere. "Gotta go Anita, you know pee in a cup." What on earth was I thinking!?

The nurse escorted me to the bathroom where I found an empty cup with my name on it in a pass-thru cabinet in the wall. I had had three glasses of iced tea at the cafe, so it didn't take long.

5. Chest X-rays

When I got back to waiting room #2, the receptionist said, "We'll get with you in a moment."

Anita was gone. I sat down and began to read again, managing to absorb three paragraphs (and they were good ones) before someone else came out to get me. She took me to waiting room #3, which was really the X-ray room.

I read one paragraph before the X-ray technician came in. He had me take off my shirt and stand first this way then that as he stood behind a shield and pushed the buttons. He took the films and left the room, telling me he was going to check them to make sure they came out ok.

I got dressed.

6. Blood Work

In one paragraph's time, someone else came into the room and led me two doors down the hall to the blood lab.

I sat down on a wide, cushioned seat with broad padded, swiveling armrests and began to read again. I had read an entire page when the blood technician came in. She wore a disposable white gown, and the first thing she did when she entered the room was wash her hands with foam from a dispenser that hung directly beside the door under a sign that boldly proclaimed, "Foam in. Foam out."

"I have a lot of blood to take," she said, but in truth she didn't -- just a few vials.

Then she had me verify the data on another computer form and then attached a waterproof plastic bracelet to my wrist, warned me no to remove it before the surgery, and cut the blue paper one off.

Then she took me around the corner.

7. EKG

There were three women milling around the EKG lab, but when I arrived, and once they decided who was going to take me, they quickly led me down a short hallway into the EKG room. I didn't get a chance to read.

The EKG technician was a slim, young woman who seemed to be talking with me but in fact was only absorbing half the words I said, which in the event was no big deal, because I was babbling about EKG paper printouts (hoping I could get a copy) and CT-scan CDs and Macs and PCs. Can you blame her for barely listening to me?

She talked about her weekend plans with her husband who plays hockey.

"Ice Bats?" I asked.

"Canadiens," she said. "He lives in Montreal."

"What!?" I gasped. "How often do you see him?"

She looked up at the ceiling as if she were calculating. "About once a month."

"That must be tough," I said.

"No. I'm not the clingy kind."

8. Back to the Beginning

The EKG technicians pointed me in the direction of the waiting room #2 receptionist who pointed me in the direction of waiting room #1.

"Just knock on the door," she said.

"What door?" I asked.

"The door where you came from," she told me, pointing toward where I was supposed to go.

"Near the TV?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

Oh, I thought to myself. That would be the door by the TV blaring CNN's live coverage of the Paris Hilton back-to-jail extravaganza. Will they be able to hear me over the TV?

9. Checkout

So I walked down the hall and down another hall and knocked on the door. A guy opened the door and had a look of recognition on his face. I had never seen him before. He stepped aside and let me in, pointing me in the direction of two nurses sitting on stools. Then he left.

I looked at one nurse and then the other. Both looked at me. It was like they were waiting for me to do something. I recognized one from when I first left waiting room #1. I didn't recognize the other one. The first got up and left, and the other, who was eating an ice cream bar, smiled and nodded but could say nothing at first, because her mouth was full.

Finally, she said, "Real professional of me?" as she tossed the popsicle stick into a garbage can. "I talked to you the other day on the phone," she added. "I'm Elizabeth."

I recognized her name, because we had spoken at length about whether or not the blood bank had taken the right thing two weeks ago.

"Am I done?" I asked.

"You're done," she said.

Of course I'm not done at all but rather just beginning.

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 Friday, June 8, 2007


I knew I was getting old a few years ago (or more than that, I suppose) when I realized that the new engineers at work not only didn't remember the first Apollo moon landing but in fact weren't even born then. Since then, many signs of my advancing maturity have made that realization yet more obvious: reading glasses, sore knees and dropping race times, an end to the marathons, aches and pains in my knuckles and elbow, bifocals...

So I suppose it shouldn't have shocked me that when my physical therapist called me in from the waiting room, she seemed just a student. But heck, she almost probably wasn't born when the first Shuttle went up, or if she was, she would have been crawling around in diapers as I was sitting in the press room at the launch site in the spring of 1981.

Here I was, getting lessons on my anatomy and biofeedback instructions on my "pelvic floor" from someone who seemed to be generations younger than me. Still, she was really good: her description of the surgery were clear and mercifully free of medical jargon, and her instructions for my at-home exercises were easy to understand. And she spoke with such confidence that I was immediately willing to trust that part of my fate to her.

In spite of that, as I lay here on the floor tonite doing the exercise sets she assigned, I find myself amazed at the generations that separate us -- at her youth and the lack of mine.

I suppose that, like bifocals, it's just something you eventually get used to. I guess that's a kind of therapy, too.

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 Thursday, June 7, 2007

Lying Low

I guess I lie low at times like these. A big test coming up. A presentation. A long race. Open radical prostatectomy. I lie low to clear my mind, maybe. Or to save up my energy. Or to focus. To prepare.

It's morning and the heat of the day is climbing, or so I see thru the closed patio door: sunny spots are working their way across the backyard lawn. In here, it's dark and cool, and part of my low-lying brain is telling me to lie down.

Guinness wouldn't mind that -- taking a nap so early in the day. He lives his life that way and would love a companion. Curled up at the foot of the mattress, he raises his head as I walk by. I pat him on the head and leave the room. He lays his head back down.

I tried it a while ago -- lying down, trying to take a nap early in the day, but it didn't last long. A hot flash came over me, and I had to toss the sheet aside, and although part of me was all for a nap, another part wouldn't turn off. So here I am babbling.

Maybe later in the day.

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 Wednesday, June 6, 2007


Coming down the hill, as I passed over the bridge I quickly glanced at the running water in the creek -- the product of last weekend's rains. Then I stood up on my bike pedals and began to climb the shallow slope up to the stop sign. Beneath me I saw something red flash by.

I stopped my bike, set its kickstand, and walked back to see what it that red thing was. But as I walked back along the curb, I saw someone sitting on a large block of limestone watching me.

I continued walking toward the red thing, but I looked over at the person, because it was an odd place to sit.

It was an odd place to sit, because it was at the edge of a thicket overlooking the creek, and the land was basically a no-man's land in the subdivision. I'd never seen anyone there, before. Still, it was at the same time an excellent place to sit, because the rock was just the right size, was flat on the top, and was in a wonderfully shady spot.

As I got closer to the red thing, the person said something.

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

The person was a woman. "You forgot your bike," she said, pointing behind me.

"I know," I said, looking back at it standing on its kickstand beside the curb. "I stopped to see what this red thing was." And I picked up an iTunes gift certificate that was lying on the ground.

"Oh," she said.

"That's a good spot to sit," I said, "in the shade."

"Want to join me?" she asked, picking up a cane and moving it to her other side, making room for me on the rock.

"Ok, I will," I said. And I walked into the shade, unsnapping my helmet as I sat down. "I'm David," I said, and I reached out to shake her hand.

"I'm Denise," she said.

Her voice was scratchy but rang with the song of East Texas. Her eyes were dark. The skin on her hands was dry, and her arms were bruised. She had a T-shirt and a loose black skirt that hung down to her ankles. Her legs dangled over the edge of the limestone seat, and her bare feet were just a few inches above the ground. Her black shoes set next to the rock below her. Her feet looked like they do a lot of walking.

"I'm waiting for my sister," she said. And she told a half-story about her sister being on vacation and not answering her phone and how as a result Denise was locked out of the house with no place to sleep.

"So I sleep outside," she said in a pitiful voice.

"Under the bridge?" I asked. She nodded. "Last weekend?" I asked with wide eyes. She nodded. "There must have been a lot of water down there," I said. She laughed and said, "I had to move three times." And then she told me about another time she had slept in a spot that turned out to be just under a drainage pipe and woke up in the middle of the night with water pouring out on her.

"I just wish my sister would get back," she said, "or at least answer her phone. I barely have anything to eat."

I looked down at her hands that held a 16oz can of Miller beer.

"Is that your lunch?" I asked. Her eyes widened in a half-smile, and she silently nodded. "That's no good," I said. She shook her head.

So we talked some more about the creek. And she repeated her story again about her sister. Then she asked me about the red thing I found in the road. I asked her if she knew what iTunes was. She nodded. I told her it as an iTunes gift card. It had been there for a few days, she said. I nodded.

We were silent for a few seconds. A slight breeze blew.

I put my hand on her shoulder. "If I give you something, will you get yourself something to eat?" I asked. She looked over at me and nodded.

So I pulled a few dollars, a pitifully small amount, out of my wallet and gave it to her. She quickly folded up the money and slipped it in her shirt as I got up and buckled my helmet and began to walk back to my bike.

When I got to the curb, I turned back to her. "Good to meet you, Denise," I said, and I held up my hand.

"Good to me you, David," she said.

I got on my bike and road back home.

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The Web 2.0 space

Marc Andreessen writes about Web 2.0:

... here's the problem.

Web 2.0 has been picked up as a term ... to describe a theoretical new category of startup companies.

Or a "space", if you will. ... But there is no such thing as a "space".

There is such a thing as a market -- that's a group of people who will directly or indirectly pay money for something.

There is such a thing as a product -- that's an offering of a new kind of good or service that is brought to a market.

There is such a thing as a company -- that's an organized business entity that brings a product to a market.

But there is no such thing as a "space".

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 Monday, June 4, 2007

A Little Chinquapin

1. A New Addition

Yesterday morning there were two trees across the street, scraggly and lame. Two Ash trees that have begun their slow decline, with large leafless branches already hanging out over the street. But by the early afternoon, there was a third tree: a little Chinquapin Oak standing between the two, staking out its new spot in a sunny spot of greenery under an open patch of blue recently cleared from the canopy with the help of a borrowed chain saw. I know -- it's late in the year to be planting a tree as the heat is well upon us. Whatever.

2. Feinted Rain

In the early evening, as I sat in the gathering dusk admiring the Chinquapin from afar, its broad leaves rustling in the breeze, the sky turned dark. White teeth descended from the cloud deck that was advancing from the west. The air was cool. A breeze picked up. The promise of rain was in the air. Tree branches up and down the street began to swing wildly in the wind. A few first drops of rain began to fall. I sat there smiling, celebrating for the tree. But then the drops stopped, the wind dropped, the black sky turned light again, and the storm was gone as quickly as it had come. My smile had been premature.

3. Tempests of Fury

In the dark last night, a flash and crash lit up the sky and shook the walls of our house. The power went out and snapped back on. Within moments wild gusts of wind were again shaking the trees up and down the block, and moments after that the rain began to fall. It came down in white sheets whipped into a frenzy by swirling tempests of fury. It poured off the eaves of the house. It ran down the driveway and streamed in a torrent around the corner of the house. I sat on a bar stool in the garage with the door open looking out into the storm, peering into the darkness wondering about the little Chinquapin. It was getting its rain, I thought, and I smiled to myself.

4. The Morning After

This morning the sky was blue and only a few puddles and some fallen twigs and branches told of what happened last night. The air was cool and sweet. White clouds floated above the canopy of the trees. The grass seemed greener than it was just yesterday morning when I collected my shovel, adze, and rock phosphate into a wheel barrow and sneaked across the street to plant a tree. I looked across the street to where it now stood, broad green leaves showing no signs of complaint. It must have been smiling. I was. What a glorious day to be a tree!

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 Sunday, June 3, 2007

Full Moon Light

The full moon throws a white light on the far side of the room,
And the ceiling fan makes a wobbling sound that I'd normally just ignore,
But glowing numerals coming from the clock warn of daylight coming soon,
And I only wish I could close my eyes and maybe sleep a little more.

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