Fac Brat

fac brat (plural fac brats): (slang) A child of a faculty member at a high school, university, or college.

     (from Wikionary,com)

I was a fac brat throughout all my years of living at home--from my birth in 1944 to my heading off to begin my teaching career in the fall of 1966.

On November 11, 1944, my mom and older brother were living upstairs in the house of her parents, 1609 E. Broadway Ave.; Enid, Oklahoma. Then I arrived.

Dad was overseas then with the U. S. Army--something about Nazis in Europe? (Oh, would he have raged in disbelief about Nazis parading in the streets of Virginia a few years ago!)

My grandfather, Dr. G. Edwin Osborn, in whose house we were living, was a professor at the Bible College associated with Phillips University, just a few blocks east of his house.

When my dad returned from the war, he began his own career at Phillips--he would become the provost--and did not surrender that position until the Korean War: He was called back to active duty and became a chaplain at Amarillo (Tex.) Air Force Base for a couple of years.

Then ... back to professor time.

We moved to Hiram, Ohio, in 1956, and there he began his ten-year career as the Head of the Division of Education at Hiram College. I had him for a teacher education class. He never called me by name when I raised my hand; instead, he would nod toward me and say, "Yes?"  I never called him by name, either.

In 1966 he and Mom (who had acquired her Ph.D.) headed off to Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa, where both would complete their careers.

I don't recall a lot of hassle about being a fac brat--except, occasionally, in the Hiram Local School when older/bigger kids would grab me (and other fac brats) by the arm and say, "Oooooh, your father's in the college!"

I couldn't understand what was so bad about that--my father's being in the college--but the guys who did that to me didn't ever look as if they were interested in a discussion about it. But I was proud of my dad--knew that he'd come off a farm in the Depression, worked his way through school, served his country in two wars, earned a Bronze Star.

So I could have said, "Hell, yes, he's in the college--and he worked for it." But if I had? I wouldn't be typing these words right now. I'd be lying in Fairview Cemetery in Hiram.

Later, our son would also become a fac brat. It began in sixth grade (1983-84) when we removed him from our local school and took him over to Aurora, where I was teaching eighth grade English at Harmon (Middle) School. There, he had a wonderful time--made great friends he still has, was in sports, band, plays, and other school activities (from bowling club to whatever).

He was in my class in eighth grade, and for a few days it was ... awkward. He couldn't help calling me "Dad,” which, early on, made the other kids laugh. I did give him a detention one day for arriving late--and when I did so, the other kids cheered. So it goes.

For me, it was a wonderful year--and when I directed our final play production (our Eighth Grade Farewell-to-Harmon Show), I wept like a baby on closing night when he embraced me in the Commons (where we put on our shows). I think he had some tears going, too.

He then attended Western Reserve Academy for four years--had his mom as an English teacher for his sophomore and senior years. More fac-brattery. I believe he had a great time there, too--sang in the Glee Club (and adored his director, the late William Appling), was in plays and sports.

But his fac-brat years finally ended in 1990 when he graduated.

I guess where I'm coming down on all this--from my point of view only (you'll have to ask Steve about his)--is that I feel incredibly fortunate. My grandfather, my father--both were wonderful men, and they taught me every single day. (Okay, some of their lessons didn't, uh, catch hold until some years/decades later.) And my mom, who was a teacher (but never mine--she did teach my younger brother at James A. Garfield HS in Garrettsville, Ohio), also presented lessons that, again, I didn't exactly observe for ... a while.

I loved that year having Steve in class--and his particular crop of eighth graders was extraordinarily talented in so many ways (I'm FB friends with quite a few of them). I've not regretted for a second taking him to Harmon with me. I would drive him to school with me in the morning; Joyce would pick him up afterward. And the talks we had on those drives ... seeing the goslings each spring around a pond we drove by ... seeing him head off to classes taught by some of the greatest teachers I've ever known ... seeing him so excited by something he'd done, learned, experienced. Seeing him so happy ... nothing like it.

I've been incredibly lucky in my life--my family in boyhood, my wife and her wonderful family, our son--and now his terrific family (wife, Melissa; sons Logan (15) and Carson (11)). I "deserved" none of it, but I cherish all of it. Deeply so. And will until my final breath ...

I Liked My Old Routines Better

Before the virus arrived, my daily routines were boring. Nap-inducing. But now I realize I loved them. Loved them.

Here they are/were:

Up about 5:30 a.m.--doing some kitchen chores (emptying dishwasher, etc.), then showering, dressing, then firing up the computer for the day--checking Quicken and bank accounts and updating my journal and looking at the new word-of-the-day on my tear-off calendar and writing for our son and his family a quick doggerel using the word.

About 6:30--heading over to Open Door Coffee Company, chatting with some of the regulars, reading the day's New York Times on my Kindle, editing/texting the vocab doggerel to the family, then launching into my morning's reading. Three or four days of reading each week go to the book I'll be reviewing on Friday morning for Kirkus Reviews. I've been working for them since March 1999 and have done about 1550 reviews. They publish semi-monthly, and I'm proud (and lucky) that I've not missed an issue, not missed a deadline.

About 8:30 or so--heading home and going upstairs to talk with Joyce, who's returned from her morning exercise at the gym and is sitting in her study at her computer, working on her various writing projects.

Then down to my study--downloading into Quicken any recent bank transactions, working on various writing projects (including this blog).

A little before 10, heading back upstairs to have Joyce read the blog post (she inevitably finds typos--thank goodness).

Afterward, flopping on the bed for an hour's rest/nap.*

Up about 11 or so for some more working in the study until time for preparing lunch with Joyce. Mine is simple: a cup of yogurt and fresh fruit, a piece of sourdough toasted bread with a light coating of fresh jam, some water, 8 oz. of pomegranate juice.

A little after noon, cleaning up and walking back to the coffee shop for my afternoon's work--and for some talk with good friend Chris (and, sometimes, his wife, Michelle, who can occasionally join us). Reading the Cleveland Plain Dealer and the Akron Beacon-Journal on my iPad, writing my latest lines for my blog Daily Doggerel (currently the theme: the seven deadly sins; I'm writing lines based on the synonyms for each of the seven). Then--reading 25 pages or so of a novel--till about 1:30. Doing some editing (via One Drive) of some earlier things I've drafted.

Walking home, talking with Joyce, then heading out to the gym for the most unpleasant hour-and-a-half of my day. (I had stopped doing this shortly before the virus shutdown: my dizziness had made it dangerous.)

Driving back home about 3:30, talking with Joyce, working in my study, getting ready to shut down the computer for the night.

Preparing our supper (I do most of the cooking)--mostly chicken, fish, veggies, sourdough bread (no jam this time--just warmed in the microwave), salad. No dessert.

Cleaning up--then heading out to get a Diet Coke or a decaf somewhere. (We like to go to Aurora, where I taught for thirty years.)

Home--and getting ready for bed (I'm usually in the sack by 6--though not to sleep), reading about an hour in various books, streaming bits of shows for about an hour.

Lights out about 8. Joyce, who does not like early-bed, stays with me until I nod off, then goes to the back bedroom, where she works another hour or so.

Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.

Weekends are much the same, especially Saturday, though in the evening we like going to a movie, or out to Mustard Seed Market and Barnes & Noble and Panera in W. Akron.

Sundays are very different. Mixing and baking the sourdough bread (some of which ends up with our son and his family), going to Panera for a light bagel breakfast, then over to Acme, then Heinen's, for our week's groceries, napping a little more, making fresh omelets for supper, running out afterwards for coffee or Diet Coke.

And that's a summary of my boring week--a boring week that I now miss with an intensity I never would have believed.

*re: the napping: I'm on a med that has greatly diminished my energy.

Sunday Sundries, 271

1. HBOTW [Human Beings of the Week]: Our next-door neighbors, yesterday, had delivered to our house some lovely white lilies (and some other flora I'm too dumb to identify--Joyce could do it in a heartbeat). They are wonderful people--use their snowblower on our walk for us, helped us pay for a new fence when it was collapsing ...

2. I finished two books this week--the first of which took me a while to read in small chunks each night in bed.

     - The first was The Stories of Alice Adams. Adams (1926-99) was a gifted writer of stories and novels, and I have to admit I had not read much of her till now: some stories in magazines and anthologies--and one earlier collection of them (Beautiful Girl, 1979). Adams is enjoying something of a resurrection now, I think (and hope): She is the subject of a recent biography (Alice Adams: Portrait of a Writer, 2019, by Carol Slenicka), and I'm hoping her works return, for she is something to read.

Reading this thick collection (over 600 pages--big pages), I soon fell into her rhythm--and noticed a few things. She loves (and wonderfully employs) the present tense; she likes to use space-breaks (reader-friendly!); her short stories are generally ... short; she writes about failed relationships, drift-less people, how the interior life collides with the exterior, hope, hopelessness, aging, place (she sets most if the stories around where she had lived, esp. San Francisco, and places where she'd visited, esp. Mexican ones).

And now, I'm afraid, I'm hooked and am going to have to read her novels--as soon as I finish with Ian McEwan and Arthur Phillips. Which won't be too long.

Oh, can't forget this: In her story "1940: Fall," she introduces us to a character from Enid, Oklahoma--my hometown (409).

Link to Adams' obituary in the New York Times.

     - The second was Enter the Aardvark, 2020, by Jessica Anthony (her second book). I learned about it from a FB post by Brock Clarke, so, trusting his judgment, I ordered it, read it--and now trust his judgment even more, if that's possible.

This is a wild one--in structure, in the use of parallel stories, in the events that occur, in the regular employment of the second person (a truly arrogant character), in the intricate plotting (which makes the blurb on the jacket by Kate Atkinson, a genius at such things, even more impressive: "It's been a long time since I enjoyed a novel so much").

There are two time periods: the recent past and 1875 (throughout, the story cuts back and forth between them). In 1875 we follow the story of the English scientist who killed and returned the aardvark in Africa and the English taxidermist who first prepared the aardvark, the aardvark that reappears more than a century later in the pad of a Washington politician, a Congressman who adores Ronald Reagan, who adores things, who has presidential ambitions of his own. And who tells us his story in the second person.

Well, it's not too long before we start seeing all sorts of connections between 1875 and the time of our Reagan-fan. Don't want to give away too much, but there are issues of sexuality, of, well, ghosts, of friendship, of betrayal. Oh, and the Nazis figure in the story. As do some Africans who lay claim to the aardvark, which, as I've said, was killed in their country.

One of the great things about the opening: a swift telling of creation. Read that--and you, like me, will be hooked.

3. We were happy to discover on Britbox this week that Season 8 of Death in Paradise, a formulaic mystery series that we really like, is now available.

But it doesn't look as if one of our favorite characters, Duane (an older, horny, funny local cop), is in the cast this year. Oh, no! Started streaming the first one on Friday night--same old, same old (i.e.,--great fun).

4. We've also been streaming the Netflix documentary Mark Twain Prize, which tells the story of the Prize conferred in 2019 on comedian Dave Chappelle. The Mark Twain Prize for American Humor is given every year--and there's a celebration at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC. It commenced in 1998 and has honored a lot of famous names in comedy--quite a few of them former cast members of Saturday Night Live.

It's really fun to watch as it cuts back and forth between now and then (Chappelle started doing stand-up as a teen!)--and onstage tributes from the likes of Tiffany Haddish, Neal Brennan (who worked on the Comedy Central Chappelle Show), Sarah Silverman, Jon Stewart, and many others (we're only about 1/3 of the way through). One of the most moving parts? The opening, when the band from his former high school, the Duke Ellington HS for the Arts (Washington, DC), performs. Oh, were those kids good! Marching through the aisles, dancing on the stage in honor of surely one of their greatest graduates.

Link to some video.

5. Joyce and I are still doing okay--trying to exercise a little every day, eat well, rest, do our work. Talk, talk, talk. We missed our grandson Carson's 11th birthday on April 3, but we Face Timed to watch him open up the presents we'd given him--and to hear Steve, our son--Carson's dad, read aloud (with great skill and humor, if I do say so!) the birthday story that Joyce and I had written.

If you enlarge the pic, you can see Joyce and me on the iPhone screen!

6. Final Word--a word I liked this week from one of my online word-of-the-day providers:

     - from The Oxford English Dictionary--a word that seems very useful as a metaphor!

daddock, n. Rotten or decayed wood; a piece of rotten wood; a rotten tree or log. Also formerly more fully †daddock wood.’

Pronunciation: Brit. /ˈdadək/,  U.S. /ˈdædək/

Forms:  16 dadocke,   16– daddock,   18– daddok,   17– dadack,   18– daddack,   18– dadduck,   18– daddak,   18– daddick,   18– dadick,   18– daddik,   19– dadock,   18– dedock,   19– deddock,   19– daddik.

Origin: Apparently formed within English, by derivation. Etymons: an element of unknown origin, -ock suffix. Perhaps compare English regional (Devon) dathered withered (19th century).

 English regional (southern and midlands) and U.S. regional (chiefly New England).

a1624  Bp. M. Smith Serm.(1632) 106 How long would it be before you could..make mortar of sand, or make a piece of dadocke-wood to flame?

1674  T. Blount Glossographia(ed. 4) Daddock, when the heart or body of a Tree is throughly rotten, it is called Daddock, quasi, dead Oak.

1680  B. Nanfan Ess. Divine & Moral  196 This Spark to that glorious Diamond, this Daddock-wood, this Glow-worm to that Morning-Star.

1731  R. Gwinnett et al.  Pylades & Corinna  I. 96 Very much like Touch-wood, or what our Country-Fellows call Daddock, which is an old, rotten, light, hollow, spungy, soft-sort of Wood.

1787  F. Grose Provinc. Gloss.  Daddock, rotten wood, touch-wood. Glouc.

1845  S. Judd Margaret  ii. i. 215 The great red daddocks lay in the green pastures where they had lain year after year, crumbling away.

1850  J. S. Jenkins U.S. Exploring Exped.: Voy. of Exploring Squadron  i. ii. 50 The unsightly daddocks, which so often mar the beauty of northern scenery, are rarely encountered [in Brazil].

1889  M. Reid Naturalist in Siluria  44 On having the nest itself drawn out, it proved no nest at all, only some loose ‘daddocks’, as pieces of decayed wood are called by the country people.

1986  J. Gardner Stillness & Shadows  180 Oak boards, one imagined, were as soft as daddock.

It's Skunk Time ... Again

No, I'm not talking about politics.

Last night/early this morning we had our first aromatic visit from the skunk(s) in our neighborhood. Sure signs of spring: blossoming flowers, reeking skunks.

Last night's aroma woke me up--at first I thought we had a gas leak. But, no, it was a skunk leak--though leak is not exactly accurate. Skunks do it on purpose. (I wonder, when they're old, if they, like us, lose control?)

So I was able to drift back to sleep.

Later, I thought about one skunk adventure I remember from boyhood ...

We had recently moved to Hiram, Ohio, where Dad would teach at Hiram College. Summer of 1956 we moved.

For faculty housing, Hiram had three old houses in a cluster back on a little cul-de-sac called Dodge Court, which lay behind an old brick dormitory, Bowler Hall, then being used to house the music department. (I took piano lessons in there—very grateful there are no recordings.)

We moved into one of the houses. In the other two were Prof. Miller (history), his wife and daughter, Sarah, a junior high student (like me). They had a cat—a cat which our dog, Sooner, quickly dispatched. But let’s not get into that.

In the other house were the Proctors: Francis (music department—and church organist) and his two daughters (Jane and Mary) and son (Johnny). Jane was in high school, Mary in junior high, Johnny in elementary—the approximate ages of the three Dyer boys.

The Proctors had two dogs: Princess, a beautiful collie, and Judy, a little yappy white-and-black terrier, a lap dog that thought it was White Fang—or Wolverine. That little beast scared the hell out of me. (One day, outside, it ran up, bit my grandmother in the ankle, ran away.) Judy spent much of her day in the lap of Mrs. Proctor, a wonderful woman, who was confined to a wheelchair because of polio.

Okay ... one fine day we heard fierce barking from the rear basement entrance to Bowler Hall. We (whoever “we” were—I can’t remember all who were there) hurried over there, smelled that unmistakable smell, and just as we were turning to run away, here came Princess and Sooner sprinting out of the basement, reeking of skunk.

Let’s just say that Sooner was not for the following weeks the most pleasant of canine companions. But at least he had short hair. Princess had that luxurious long hair that very reluctantly released the stink over the weeks that followed.

I don’t think Sooner understood at all why we didn’t want to play all that much with him. I’m sure he felt rejected, neglected, etc. Dad, though, understood. Tried to wash him. (Skunk smell + wet dog smell = disaster.)

I think, however, that for both Princess and Sooner this was a demonstration of what they call “One-Trial Learning.” For human children, it’s touching the hot stove, messing with an electrical plug in an outlet, etc. Do it once and you won’t do it again.

I can’t leave without another Princess story. A couple of years later, both the Proctors and the Dyers moved to houses down Hiram’s north hill a little. We’d bought an old farmhouse; they’d built a single-story place created to ease Mrs. Proctor’s life.

One day, my uncle Ronald (Mom’s brother) was visiting. He was a distinguished clergyman and professor in a seminary. Very ... proper in many ways (not so much in others).

So, we were sitting out on our porch, and here came Princess, who for a reason I choose not to think about, decided it would be a good idea to hump Uncle Ronald’s leg.

He didn’t seem to know what to do about it. But I did: I laughed myself sick.

Teaching and Learning

Both of our grandsons (ages 11 and 15) are experiencing distance learning. Our son (who teaches writing at the University of Akron) and our daughter-in-law (who teaches nursing at Kent State) have also been dealing remotely with students.

I can’t imagine it, really—as a student, as a teacher.

When I was a kid, there was a lot I did not like about school. The rigidity of classrooms in the 1950s (I was in rooms in which the rows of student desks were bolted to the floor), the unrelieved boredom of the curriculum (worksheets and answering questions at the ends of chapters), the infrequency and brevity of recess—these were among the things that made me dislike so much of elementary school.

I did have a few teachers who were wonderful, though (Mrs. Rockwell, 4^th grade, I’m thinking of you!), who made the day much more interesting that it otherwise was.

But what I most liked about school? My friends. And girls.

I’m pretty sure friendship and romance are still pretty high on students’ agendas? Although, today, it’s far easier to stay in touch with friends than it was when I was growing up (when a phone call or a note passed in class were about it). I would guess that what kids miss right now (perhaps what they miss the most?) is the face-to-face contact with their friends and with others who attract them in various ways.

I was a teacher for forty-five years (1966-2011). Most of it was in a public middle school (Aurora, Ohio), but I also taught some in private colleges (Lake Forest and Hiram), at a large public university (Kent State), and at a college-prep boarding school (Western Reserve Academy, grades 9-12).

And, as I said earlier, I cannot imagine holding classes online—or via the various apps that allow students and teachers to hear and see one another.

It just ain’t the same. It ain’t even close.

When I think of the great teachers I had—Kindergarten through grad school—I realize that so much of my delight in their classes came from their presence. I don’t, of course, just mean their being present; I meant their power (I can’t think of a better word).

Teachers and professors whom I admired really knew stuff, of course, but that was only a part of it. Also, it was their intelligence and creativity and energy that seemed to sparkle and crackle around them as if they were characters in a Marvel movie. They were the sorts of people you could not not notice in the room.

The energy was different, though, for all of them. For Mrs. Rockwell (4th grade) it was her kindness, her humor, her willingness to try things, to “shake things up.”

For Mr. Brunelle (who taught English, Latin, and German at Hiram High School) it was his humor (oh, did he love puns!), his long experience (as a boy he’d seen Mark Twain—he’d served in Europe during WW I), his multiple talents (he loved photography, directed plays, sponsored an assortment of school activities), his devotion to scholarship. Okay—and his temper!

For Dr. Ravitz (I took seven courses from him at Hiram College in the early 1960s) it was his scholarship, his passion for literature, his tacit insistence that we value—and practice—an intellectual life. One of his techniques—and it could have been accidental (I prefer to think it wasn’t)—was this: In class he would use words that he knew most of us did not know. (Some of my favorites: noetic, transcendental, lycanthropy.) But many of us hurried back to our dictionaries in the dorm, checked them out, started using them ourselves in our papers. (Yes, real dictionaries—no dictionary.com in them thar days.) He held a room in awe—that’s a good way to put it, I guess.

I can’t imagine Mrs. Rockwell, Mr. Brunelle, or Dr. Ravitz on Zoom because, you see, it’s presence that makes such a difference—at least it did with me.

And so, these viral days, I have nothing but extreme admiration for the students--and for the teachers, who are making do the best they can, who are surrendering their presence not only to protect themselves and others but also surrendering so much of their presence.

The Sun Is Out--and Not ...

The sun is out today--and it's supposed to reach 50 or more. That's good. That's very good. Just having Old Sol out and working dispels not only clouds above but those within. (These overhead blues are the ones I like; the inward ones, not so much.)

We've just learned that there are seventeen COVID-19 cases in Hudson, but, of course, there could be more: absence of tests, people who are infected but don't know it yet, etc. So we are remaining cautious: going outside only once a day for a walk of a mile, avoiding other people like ... well, like the plague. This weekend we're scheduled for our weekly pick-up of groceries at Acme here in Hudson. And that's it.

For the rest of the time we're pretty much indoors, just the two of us. And we just continue doing the things we do ...

Our younger grandson, Carson, will turn eleven tomorrow, and it grieves us that for the first time in his life we will not be with him on his birthday. (We will Face Time.) We do have gifts--and a birthday story we've written for him--and son Steve will come pick those up on our front porch later today--if he thinks it's prudent to do so. (We've told him about the virus cases here in town.) His wife is a nurse--a very skilled one--so I'm positive he will do what's sensible.

I've got an Rx that will need a refill in about a week, so I'm going to work on an arrangement to have CVS deliver it rather than go to my usual pharmacy for a face-to-face pickup.

I'm also trying to get a cancer-treatment appointment rescheduled. Next Wednesday I'm supposed to go up to Seidman Cancer Center near Chagrin Falls for two things: (1) a blood draw--to check my PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen), (2) a full bone scan (to determine if and where and how fast the cancer is moving; it began in my prostate, is now in my bones).

Frankly, I'm afraid to go there--not because of any dark cancer news (I've already gotten a bellyful of that over the past fifteen years) but because, being in a vulnerable demographic (I'm 75 years old and have cancer), I don't want to encounter Dr. Coronavirus up there.

I've emailed Seidman, left phone messages for the past few days. Can't get through. Lots of people need to reschedule, and it must be a nightmare at Seidman--even more than it usually is. Yesterday, for example, I called in, left voice-mail (about 9 a.m.), and I got a return call a little before 5 telling me I needed ... to try another phone number. Which I did. And got an error message.

So that's where we are.

I am, of course, surpassingly grateful for many other things in our lives. We are, for the nonce, virus-free--as are our son and his family. We're in our house. We have food. We have books to read. We have shows to stream. We have friends who check on us. And on and on. But best of all?

We have each other.

I'm Starting to Look Like ...

HWL

... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-82). Before this hibernation is over, I'm sure I'll look exactly like him.

Let's start with the beard. The young Longfellow did not wear one. (See pic below.) It was only after his wife, Frances, died in 1861 that he grew one. She had burst into flames when a candle fell on her dress (she was melting sealing wax for a letter); she raced across the house into his study; he looked up and saw her in flames. He grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her, sustaining a burn on his neck. She died the next morning. And Longfellow started the beard to hide the damage to his face.

After Longfellow died, by the way, his son found in his desk an unpublished poem about Frances and her death and its devastating effect on him. (Link to "Cross of Snow.") I've memorized it. Love it.

I've told this sad Longfellow story before; it affects me deeply, every time.

Now ... a lighter tale: my own beard

Our son was in sixth grade (1984-85), and one day, innocently (?), he asked what I would look like in a beard. And I immediately commenced to grow one. I'd always hated shaving, and now I could blame son Steve for my not doing so! (I do shave my neck and upper cheeks about twice/week.)

The growth has been "adorning" my face ever since (and turning more and more white). My mother was not (initially?) pleased. She was still teaching at Drake University when she first saw it, and here's what she said (more or less): "All the men around here are shaving theirs off now."

younger, waggish me

Implication: You're out of it, Danny. If you want to be, you know, "with it," you'd better reactivate your razor!

Mom was clever, eh? But ... I ignored her and have been sporting it ever since.

Usually, now, I keep it fairly short. I visit my wonderful barber (Mickey) here in Hudson every three weeks or so, and, kind soul that he is, he doesn't even charge me for trimming it. So I tip him to the max. (Well, my max.)

But now--after about six weeks of No-Mickey--the beard, Santa-Claus white, is beginning to billow out and look more Whitmanian, Longfellowan.

Walt Whitman, 1819-92

Joyce has been ... tolerant--and only occasionally scratches her head furiously after I hug her. That's what love is, you know? Not scratching (very much) after your lover embraces you.

Anyway, a month or six weeks (or more?) lie ahead of us, and I hope I get to see Mickey before I start tripping over this thing that's now hanging from my face.

**

BTW: You'll notice that I have not attached a recent pic of myself. Be grateful.