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younger nephew

Younger Nephew (C) is almost 16. He’s gone around the dark side of the moon a bit because, well, he’s almost 16. He’s withdrawn, monosyllabic, morose. Your basic teenage boy. Still, my sister has been worried about him, worried that Houston will not be able to bring him back from the dark side of the moon. I try to tell her, “He’ll come back. Elder Nephew came back. He’ll be back. It’s okay. It’s okay.” But she still worries. More so now.

When my sister and BIL sat the boys down last week and told them the grim diagnosis, Elder Nephew was visibly shaken. Younger Nephew was stoic and left the room in silence. About a half hour later, he knocked on their bedroom door. He sat on the edge of the bed with them.

“With everything that’s happening, I think I should quit football.”

Younger Nephew, who will only be a sophomore, was personally recruited by the high school football coach to play next year. He also plays basketball, which is kind of a weird combo, I guess, but he’s just a really good athlete. This summer is consumed with workouts and camps and practices and whatever really good high school athletes do with their summers. He loves football. Loves it.

But he continued.

“I mean, Brother is going away to college in the fall and someone needs to be around to take Piper where she needs to go and, besides, football is pretty expensive, so I just think I should quit.”

My sister and BIL protested vigorously, but Younger Nephew interrupted. He IS going through a stubborn phase. Or, well, maybe it’s not a phase.

“But I’m the one who’s playing, so I think I should decide if I want to play or not.”

My BIL spoke. There’s a reason why the man is a shrink.

“Well, C, if you want to quit because you don’t like it and don’t want to play, then, yes, I’d say it’s your decision. BUT if you want to quit because you think it will help me and your mom right now, then, no, it’s our decision.”

Younger Nephew was silent.

“Look, C, I want my life to go on as normally as possible. I like seeing my boys play sports. It makes me happy. And you love it. So I don’t want you to quit, okay?”

Younger Nephew responded slowly.

“Okaay.”

They both hugged him and thanked him and teared up a bit and watched as their boy — the one who’s gone around the dark side of the moon, you know — walked back to his room.

Oh, he’s coming back.

He never really left.

Such a kid. Such a kid.

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surreality

Piper’s dad, my brother-in-law, has oral cancer. It’s on his tongue. It’s rare. It’s serious. It’s aggressive. It may be at stage IV already. The mortality rate is high. He’s only in his 40s. He’s never smoked. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t chew tobacco. He doesn’t engage in the “typical” risk factors here. It’s all just surreal.

The last two weeks our lives have completely turned upside down. He is scheduled for surgery next Thursday, July 15 at 8 a.m. We’re not sure of the stage yet. If there’s lymph involvement — which is looking likely — it’s stage III or IV; he’ll need radiation.

If that happens, it will be 7 weeks of hell and that’s just the start. They will make this mask that custom fits his face and bolt him down to the table for those treatments because he is not allowed to move whatsoever. The slightest centimeter of movement means they irradiate something they don’t want to irradiate. It’s delicate and small and they just cannot let him move. He is not allowed to lose weight because it will affect the fit of the mask. He will lose teeth. Hair. Part or most of his tongue. His ability to taste, temporarily or permanently. He will have speech issues. Swallowing issues. He is a psychologist. He makes his living talking and he may not be able to talk well after this. At minimum, he will not be able to work for a few months. Because of the economy, my sister and her husband — both psychologists — have already lost a lot of clients. Things were hard before this. Elder Nephew is supposed to be heading to college in the fall. Who knows now?

I’m sorry to be such a horrible bummer, but the news over the last week has been so much worse than we all hoped for. The kids! Those kids. The boys understand a lot more than Piper, of course. She’s only 9 and they gave her a 9-year-old’s version of things. The word cancer hasn’t been on her radar as a 9 year old. They just gave her the bare minimum.

“Daddy has a growth on his tongue, Pipey, and he needs to have it taken out,” they said.

She was very serious and big-eyed.

“He might have some problems talking while he’s getting better.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Remember when you had your tonsils taken out?”

“Yeah.”

“And you couldn’t talk too well after?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that will happen with Daddy too.”

“Oh.”

There was a pause as she looked at her parents. Then she spoke again, her worried blue eyes on her dad’s face.

“Well, Daddy ….. do you want to borrow my little white board so you can talk to us while you get better?”

That girl. Always looking for the loving thing, the kind thing. Sweetest girl in the world. I can’t bear it.

Will you please pray, pippa? We are scared out of our minds.

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oh, okay, thank you

Five years ago, I bought 2 pairs of Thai fisherman pants from this little stand among the bustling thousands at the Chiang Mai night market. I’ve never worn them because … well, I didn’t know how to wear them. Now I do.

I have a plain red pair and a really pretty black pair with embroidery and beading. And they were cheap, cheap, cheap. Man, I loved Thailand!

So two questions:

~ Would I be a weirdo if I wore my fisherman pants around in daily life? Please know your answer will not deter me, I just want to know what I will be labeled, you see.

~ And, can we set up the SYC in Thailand? We’ll travel other places, of course. I mean, we have the crochet bus, the gypsy caravans, the cool motor home, the art boats. Plenty of modes of travel. But I say first stop is Chiang Mai! We’ll drink lassis and I’ll take you to Pop Am where you can eat and eat and eat for two bucks American. (We’ll give Jayne a break.)

Oh, and for dessert is an ice cream treat called Pygmy Boy.

I am not kidding.

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the appraising banshee

fleur1.jpg

“Tee Tee, why is her hair like that?” says The Banshee.

“Well, I just like it, I guess.”

“Oh.” She stares at the girl I drew, then says, “Yeah. I do, too.”

“Really? Well, that’s good.”

Several seconds pass before she speaks again.

“I think her name is Butternut.”

“Oh? Okay.”

She runs her hand over the paper and stares at Butternut for a long time.

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fortrait

The Banshee saw it first and mentioned it because she’s The Banshee. A very forthright child.

“Tee Tee,” she said, “why is there a big hole in your sock?”

Oh.

I’d taken off my Converse to jump on the giant trampoline with her, you see, forgetting about the big hole in the heel of my black sock, mainly because I really don’t care about a big hole in my sock or a big hole in your sock or a big hole in anyone’s sock. Holes happen. That’s just life. Besides, most people never see the big hole in my black sock because it’s covered with a shoe that doesn’t have a hole in it. Yet. And lest you think I have nothing but holey socks, I should inform you that this is my only holey sock, which I mention because it’s important that you’re still impressed with me even though I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed long ago. Somewhere in the wilds of the bedroom closet, there’s another black sock, hiding whole and happy, but only God knows where and it would seem he doesn’t want to tell me. Besides, if I had a whole sock, this post wouldn’t exist and then everyone loses, right?

“Tee Tee! What about your sock?” The Banshee was very concerned.

“Oh, well, sweetie” ….. Tee Tee’s a pathetic loser? …. “that’s there so … I can draw a face on my foot and have a nice frame around it. Pretty cool, huh?”

She furrowed her freckled brow at me.

“That’s not why, Tee Tee.”

“Sure, it is.” I was straight-faced.

“Nooooo …..”

Less sure now.

“Well, how else can you draw a face on your foot and frame it then?”

“Uhm …… I don’t …. know, Tee Tee.”

She scrunched her little face. She was actually considering how one might do this.

“Well, this is how you do it, I’m telling you.”

“Let me see your foot.”

“Okay.”

I held my holey foot up to her. She examined it like a doctor. All she needed was the white lab coat.

“Yeah. That’s a big hole, Tee Tee.”

“Yup. That just means I can draw a big face.”

“Really?”

“You still don’t believe me? Okay. Gimme a pen.”

She sprinted across the room, grabbed a pen off the counter, and sprinted back to our perch at the table, her expression wavering between resistance and surrender. The Banshee doesn’t come along for any ol’ ride just because it’s offered, just because the door is open and the engine is running. Nope. She likes to be wooed. She has to be convinced. Basically, she likes to feel that she is the commanding monarch and you are her groveling minion. Sure, I was the one with the big stupid hole in my sock which definitely carried more than a hint of eau de peon but, whatever, kid. That’s fine. We’ll see how this plays out, but you’re in control, okay?

Humming God Save the Queen, I took the pen and began to draw on my foot. This, pippa, is called “committing to the bit.” I must commit to the bit or The Banshee never will.

After a second or two, I glanced up and watched her eyes, sky blue marbles, sliding their gaze to my foot, my face, my foot, dubious but mesmerized too.

Suddenly she furrowed again.

“Tee Tee! That’s not a smiley face!”

“Of course not. I’m doing the eyes first.”

“Ohh.”

She watched me, her blue oh’s getting bigger and bigger and bigger until she could take it no more.

“Gimme the pen, Tee Tee! Gimme the pen!! I wanna draw on your foot, too!

Haha. Got her.

So she drew a bulbous nose and a wry mouth and some smudgy cheeks, and then it was done. The big stupid hole in the sock had served its stated purpose: framing our foot portrait. Our spontaneous collaborative art project.

Our fortrait.

footface.jpg

Yes, it’s a crummy cell phone photo, but please feel free to admire my flexibility. Not bad for a withered crone AND a groveling minion.

Although I am dismayed at how shifty my left foot is. I had no idea.

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genius

badwaldoart.jpg

Hahahahahaha. The genius of Brian continues unabated. I asked for a Waldo, he gave me a Waldo.

And, yes, NOW I like this painting.

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“christian” art for your holiday weekend

Oh, Lord.

Someone sent this image to me in an email, talking about how GREAT and BEAUTIFUL and MEANINGFUL it is and how I needed to send it along to non-Christians I know.

Why? What for? To say, “Hi! Not only am I a Christian, which probably annoys you, but I have really bad taste, which is inexcusable. Wanna hang out?”

You know, I can’t explain it, but this painting actually enrages me. Mainly because it sucks and I’m a crankypants. But also because this is what Christians consider “great art.” Throwing anything and everything “symbolic” at a canvas and causing sensory overload to the point of seizure and meaninglessness. The effect on me is the precise opposite of its intended effect, I’m sure. This painting actually means NOTHING to me because it’s trying so hard to mean EVERYTHING. Ugh.

(The culprit/”artist” is John McNaughton.)

Oh, his website — which made me a little dyspeptic — showed this piece in cloying closeup and that document Jesus is holding? It’s the Declaration of Independence.

bad-art.JPG

Let me bullet point my issues here:

~ Again, it’s just bad. It is. Anyone with a modicum of taste will agree. I’m sorry.

~ I’m not saying the dude doesn’t know how to paint. I’m saying the dude doesn’t know how to think or edit himself, which is much worse.

~ You know, it’s basically Thomas Kincaide meets patriotism and I cannot stand Thomas Kincaide although I have no issue with patriotism.

~ But it does meld Jesus with patriotism, which I DO have an issue with.

~ Jewish Jesus is pretty and white.

~ He’s holding The Declaration of Independence, which he wrote as we all know.

~ Lincoln has his arms outstretched worshiping Jesus and/or The Declaration. Although, Abe? You’re turned the wrong way, aren’t you?

~ The dude next to Lincoln — Adams? — appears to be worshiping Lincoln or gesturing to Lincoln. “HE farted. I didn’t do it.”

~ I do enjoy the fellow on the far right next to — Adams? — who seems about to bolt from the canvas. Hahahaha.

~ The little kid gets to touch The Declaration, but not Jesus. “Don’t touch the robe, kid.”

~ I also enjoy that Ben Franklin looks slightly pissy and pouty. “You know, I invented electricity, Jesus, so big whoop on the halo thing around your head.”

~ The weeping justice makes me vomit.

~ Is that Thomas Jefferson or John Hancock to the left of Pretty Jesus there? Is that a rolled-up copy of The Declaration or a baseball bat? Is he about to open a can of whup ass??

~ Is the dude in the lower right-hand corner texting?? Hahahaha.

~ Who’s that woman between Franklin and Jefferson/Hancock? Is she wearing a breastplate? It looks like …. Joan of Arc??? I’m so confused.

~ Is that Reagan next to the Betsy Ross chick? What up, Reagan? He seems a blank to me. Is this Alzheimer’s Reagan then?

~ Why is the blonde reporter in the lower right interviewing the pregnant lady’s hair?

~ Who’s the sobby janitor on the far left?

~ O how I hate this.

~ Although I would totally change my opinion if Waldo were hiding somewhere in there.

Please take a moment this weekend, pippa, to ponder this painting and the rich confusing history it represents.

HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!!

(UPDATE: Commenter Brenda put a great link in the comments to the artist’s site. Click on this link and you’ll be able to scroll over all the faces and learn what ALL THE SYMBOLISM is. You must check it out. Lordy.)

Oh, oops. My bad on something. Jesus hold the Constitution. Jefferson, to the left there, holds the Declaration. And here I was hoping it was a baseball bat and someone was about to open a can of whup ass.