Desert Diva

Dorothy and Toto finally reached their destination of the Emerald City to behold the “Wizard of Oz.” They reached the chamber of the wizard with fear and trepidation, as they sought out the magic of his gifts. Pulling the drape of the curtain where the wizard resided, Dorothy found that the wizard was skilled but had somewhat of an “attitude.”

Wishing she could “click her heels” and just go home, Dorothy found that the her arduous journey didn’t end at Oz - it was literally just beginning. The sad truth was the first wizard she had consulted had been more or less completely incompetent. This truth was more or less verified by the myriad of questions she asked of the wizard.

Dorothy found that she could go home - but with a price. The “price” would be a three hour surgical re-fracture of her radius bone to insert a plate and screws, and a fracture of the ulnar bone to shorten the deformity. The empty spaces would be filled in with an allograft. There would be two scars - each six inches long. It would mean several flights back and forth to the Emerald City, since the wizard made it clear that he didn’t want to release his skill post surgery. Dorothy scheduled the surgery for September 10th, but feels that the same result can be achieved by another hand surgery wizard that she previously consulted at Texas Tech in El Paso. However, trusting wizards is a difficult task for Dorothy - now more than ever…

Sandi, from Italian Babushka is a talented storyteller. She is gifted in relaying the moments of her life in blog form. I actually believe that she would do well by putting her tales in book form. However, one of her reemerging subjects is her husband Ed. I have to say that I identify with Ed who always seems to deal with minor issues (usually medical related) that he perceives as major ones. For example, several years ago late at night I was doing dishes and cut my hand on a broken glass. My hand was bleeding profusely and I was alone, so I drove myself to the emergency room. The short version of the story is that I waited an hour and a half to be seen and the attending physician put a band-aid on my finger. However, I digress…

I came from a rather large family - five brothers and one (the oldest) sister. I was the middle child (fourth out of seven) and some research says the “most neglected.” My sister called the shots, since she was the oldest. I always wanted to play with my brothers, but they often thought of me as “more of a pest” than a potential play partner. However, that didn’t stop me from trying…My parents had a “ritual” every Friday in the summer. In the early afternoon, we would all get “cleaned up” and walk to Garfield Park with my mother to the greenhouse and sunken gardens. In the meantime, my father would come home from work, take a shower and then pick us all up in the big red family station wagon. We would all go to the grocery store. Afterwards, we would play on our front porch while my parents made sandwiches, etc… for supper.

Playing on the front porch one Friday evening while waiting for supper, I wanted to play with my brothers who were eating a bag of salted in the shell peanuts. At first they said, “no.” However, one of my more evil mischievous brothers said they were playing a game - “Who can put a peanut up their nose?” At five or six years of age I desperately wanted to play, and of course took a shelled peanut and stuck it up my nose.

Then, I couldn’t get it out.

My brothers panicked and finally told my parents. I started to cry, and the peanut began to swell. My parents called the family doctor (you could still do that back then) and he instructed them to take me to the emergency room. Lying on the folded down seats of our station wagon in the dark, my father instructed me to “lie quietly” so the peanut wouldn’t lodge further. I remember on the drive to the hospital thinking, “Is this what it feels like to die?” Obviously, I didn’t and make it to the emergency room. The attending physician took one look at me and said, “How in the hell did you get that peanut up your nose.” Hard to believe but true…

The doctor took some kind of instrument, extracted the peanut, and home we went. Strangely, I continued to pester my evil mischievous brothers to let me join in their childhood games, and have the scars fond memories to prove it. Stranger still, I still like peanuts - I just don’t put them in my nose…

Lately, I’ve been “wired” in Portland. I’m somewhat amazed at the choices for coffee (skinny latte please) and Internet access. The two seem to go hand-in-hand and are around every corner. Portland seems to take coffee and computers seriously… My favorite so far is the Fresh Pot on Hawthorne. I think I’ll adopt their slogan: “My life is beautiful, and coffee is my life.” The coffee is bold and strong with beans from Stumptown Coffee Roasters.

Speaking of coffee, I recently picked up a used copy of Michael Gates Gill’s, “How Starbuck’s Saved My Life.” Oh please, someone pass the box of tissues. I find no “revelation” in the story of a man who f*cked away his fortune, cheated on his wife by having a child with his mistress, and then feels “cheated.” Join the human race Mr. Gill, I think the term is “Karma.” Although the book says he is still working as a barista, I find that simply hard to believe since he is “promoted” by the Lavin Agency and has supposedly sold movie rights (Tom Hanks) for his story.

I think Mr. Gill may have been “down on his luck” and began as a barista, but certainly knows how to “land on his feet” so to speak. I seriously doubt that he is “pumping espresso” except for show and to promote “Bucky’s.”

In the seventies, a relatively new writer wrote a novel about a fictional character (Isadora Wing) who was on a journey of self-identity. On the surface, some may fault the novel as a woman’s sexcapades as she searches for the “zipless f*ck.” Yes, there is graphic content in the telling of the story, but it “fits” and relates to the tale.
However, the novel has a deeper level. It is a narrative about a woman and her emotional struggles and self doubts. The heroine ultimately discovers her own identity and passion.

Life has no plot. It is far more interesting than anything you can say about it because language, by its very nature, orders thing and life has no order. Even writers who respect the beautiful anarchy of life and try to get it all into their books, wind up making it seem much more ordered that it ever was and do not, finally, tell the truth. Because no writer can ever tell the truth about people - which is that they are much more interesting than any characters.

Fear of Flying is about a woman searching. She’s searching for love, what is means to be a “good” woman, and basically what it means to be a woman period.

I have a literal “fear of flying.” I haven’t flown since 9/11, but previously was certain every flight I took would end up in a flaming crash. I have other fears too, but those won’t be listed here…

I think we’re all searching for meaning in our lives - whether we admit it or not. As humans, we all want to be loved and validated in some manner. It might be time for me to re-read Fear of Flying…

Update: I did receive a call this morning from Harborview Medical Center orthopedic department. I have an appointment in Seattle on July 28th at 1:00 p.m. with Dr. Nicholas Vedder (an orthopedic hand surgeon) and his “team.” Dr. Vedder is listed as one of the orthopedic hand surgeons with the original doctor I attempted to see as Harborview is part of the University of Washington Medical Center. So, I thank you all for your prayers and thoughts - apparently they worked. Now is that part where I have to be patient and wait, and not worry about the “details.”

Flowers are one of my favorite subjects to photograph.  I find the colors and textures inviting, and love the way that a moment of beauty can be captured.

The Victorians used flowers as a secret method of communication in their era.  Floriography was a way in which desires and feelings could be communicated in a non verbal method through flowers and floral arrangements.  While the ancient language of flowers is now a seemingly lost art, there are still well known meanings for certain flowers.

• Red Roses - passionate and/or romantic love
• White Rose - chastity and virtue
• Yellow Rose - devotion and friendship
• Daisy- innocence or purity
• Sunflower - adoration/respect (my personal favorite)
• Iris - inspiration
• Pansy - thinking of someone
• Ivy- fidelity
• Orchid - delicate beauty
• Geranium - comfort
• Zinnia - thoughts of friends
• Lilac - first love
• Peony - healing

So, what is your favorite flower and “secret language?”