Archive for December, 2009

Live! From Paradise! #241

Friday, December 25th, 2009

There’s something about December…

How can I not love the month that gives us:

My birthday! (Chocolate cake every year I can remember. And, this year, genuine Chicago deep dish pizza, from the loving arms of UPS.)

Hanukkah! (Eight nights of gifts every year of my childhood, from the loving arms of my parents. And, this year, more Chicago pizza.)

Christmas! (The tree, the caroling, eggnog every year since I became an adult. And, this year, no pizza but the wonderful opportunity to communicate via this space.)
Cold weather! (Colder than any month but February at the least. Icy nasal passage cold in years my shiver-friendly self gets lucky.)

And, this year, an added bonus in the form of a healthy Gwen the Beautiful.

I haven’t written about Gwen’s medical problems lately, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t had them. Especially over the last six months, when she was wracked with stomach pain that got so bad it was impossible for her to eat.

Lost 20 pounds the last two weeks of November, my wife did, and no one could figure out what was going on until a terrific M.D. named Simmy Goyle, currently residing in L.A. but formerly of London, New Delhi, and St. Louis, put us in touch with another terrific M.D by the name of Peter Warner, who practices within two hours of Paradise in Springfield, MO.

Shortly after my birthday, Gwen was hospitalized and Peter put her through a battery of tests showing that even though Gwen’s specific symptoms were unusual, the cause was an underachieving gall bladder, swollen, and up to no good.

Out came the insidious organ, and in came the December—Larry B’s Birthday, Hanukkah, Christmas, cold weather—miracle of no pain and edible meals for Ms. The Beautiful.

To misquote a Disney song I used to hate, “It’s a whole new world” for the Brodys.

And we’re not the only ones here on The Mountain affected that way.

A lowlight of this past year was the sudden and unexpected death of one of our horses, Rosie the Romantic Arabian, while Gwen and I were away on the other side of the world.

For weeks, my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, was deep in mourning. How bad was his depression? Well, from the looks of him he lost a lot more weight than Gwen did. I’d estimate about ten times as much.

He’d been alone in the corral — with a few side trips into our backyard and some interesting attempts to climb onto the porch — since mid-October, and a Huck who’s alone is a very noisy Appaloosa indeed. He would complain loudly and angrily, and then stop to listen oh-so-closely for a reply he clearly was hoping would come from the distance, from his lost mate.

So when Gwen and I drove back up to Cloud Creek Ranch after her surgery we were surprised to see the big guy standing calmly in the center of his area instead of galloping straight to the fence to horse-yodel his usual welcoming demand.

We were used to, “You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Instead, we got a little nod and a flick of the lips that I know (because Huck and I have been together for almost all of his life) is a smile.

“Look at that!” Gwen said. “Look at them all!”

I stopped our pickup at the top of the trail we call a driveway. Counted not one, not two, not three or four, but five truly beautiful women standing behind my favorite equine.

No, not human women.

Nor horse-type women either.

Deer.

Five full grown does.
Their eyes as big and as round and as sensitive as Huck’s.

The does’ posture shifted to that of wary attention, directed at us. Huck turned his head toward each doe, one after the other, and nodded again.

Then bucked, kicking out with his rear legs.

“Bye, ladies,” he called out. And, “Thanks for the fun!”

The deer scattered, leaping over the fence on the woodsy side of the corral, and Huck ran to the gate closest to where the truck was idling.

With a truly merry horse laugh, he greeted our return.

“You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Should’ve known a cool guy like Huck wouldn’t be alone for very long.

Merry Christmas, y’all, from all of us at Cloud Creek.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #240

Friday, December 18th, 2009

I’m far from being the first person to observe that as our lives amble, zip, and sometimes sputter along paths we’ve chosen — or had chosen for us — many different milestones measure our passage.

First day of school.

First communion.

Bar or Bat Mitzvah.

High school or college (and, these days, junior high and preschool) graduation.

Marriage.

The birth of a child or two, or more.

Divorce.

Grandchildren.

The deaths of our parents.

The death of a mate.

A host of others, some intensely personal, others appropriate for us all.

Obviously, many of these moments are wonderful. And, just as obviously, many are 180 degrees in the other direction.

But just a few weeks ago I encountered the most terrifying and, yep, depressing milestone of all.

Like a whole lot of bad news, it came in the mail.

My Medicare card.

I’m not talking political-socio-economic philosophy here, I’m talking psychological reality.

Staring at that little card waiting to be separated at its perforations and slipped into my wallet, I could think of only one thing:

In less than one month — under 30 days! — I’ll be 65.

Yikes!

Was that for real? Could it possibly be true? Once upon a time various of my grandparents were 65. I remember them well. Doddering, deaf, terrifying when they were behind the wheel of any vehicle on any public, or for that matter private, thoroughfare.

And my parents. They both reached 65 too. Shriveled. Barely able to see. Terrifyingly driving each other to doctors and hospitals as bouts of illness became more and more frequent … and severe.

But those old codgers were from other generations. Immigrant oldsters born in Europe at the turn of the 20th century. Generation Gapped adults of what Time Magazine called “the best generation,” born in the Good Ole USA just in time for the Great Depression.

That’s not me.

It can’t be.

I’m a young, vital, physically fit baby boomer. I’ve trained with weights for over 50 years. Worked as a writer, a gig that demands the utmost in concentration and creativity for 40 …

Uh-oh. Wait a minute. There are things, some important, some not-so, that I’ve done for 40 or 50 years?

Friends I’ve had for that same length of time?

Stories I tell that begin not with “Once upon a time” but “Back in the day …?”

I am so … so … what’s the word? Back in the day I never had trouble picking the exact one I needed, but now …

Now I’m old.

Medicare old.

Social Security benefits old.

“Grampa Larry” old.

I may not be doddering — yet — but when I stand beside my children I feel nowhere near as tall as I used to. My doctor recently recommended a good hearing aid so I could appreciate all the now-missing “sha-bop-sha-bops” on oldies radio. The prescription that just a year ago covered the farthest distance of my “progressive lenses” now is too weak for even the middle …

And, difficult as this is for me to admit, I wouldn’t want to be in another car driving on the same road Grampa Larry was on, nosirree. In fact, just yesterday a neighbor young enough to be my son posted these much-too-true words to me on Facebook:

“Hey, Brody, stay on your side of the road!”

He added an “LOL,” but that was just an act of mercy, after a surprisingly close call.

“I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

So wrote T.S. Elliot back in the day long before the day I go back to. He was referring to fashion, a teacher of mine who had heard him speak about his poetry told our lit class.

“At the time Eliot wrote this,” she said, “the style was for young men to wear straight bottoms and for older ones to fold their pants into cuffs.”

I’m still wearing straight bottoms on my jeans, but even though I’ve beaten Fashion, Time’s got me on the ropes.

Having become a grandparent several times over has been wonderful, but what comes next doesn’t seem nearly so good. I’ve spent much of my life throwing myself at the future but fear that the best I can hope for next time I do that is that I’ll bounce groggily back.

What bothers me most is that after all these years I still haven’t figured out what the Universe is all about.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the Universe hasn’t figured me out either.

Hmm, whaddaya know?

Gotcha, Uni—dude.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published December 18, 2009

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Live! From Paradise! #239

Friday, December 4th, 2009

Hollywood’s been feeding us a lot of remakes lately, filling theaters with new versions of stories we’ve seen before.

I’m no fan of this trend, but a couple of days ago I found myself taking part in a remake of my own.

My first meeting with the Old Billionaire.

Same place. (The Paradise Mexican restaurant)

Same time. (Lunch, of course.)

Same purpose. (“Time we got to know one another, don’t you think?”)

The Old Billionaire, however, had been written out in favor of a younger demographic.

His Son the Harvard Grad Genius, a slightly overweight man in his late 40s.

Unlike his father, who always seems to belong anywhere he is, HGG appeared completely out of place in his natty Armani ensemble. Not only was this the first time I’d seen anyone wear a suit in the Mexican restaurant, it was the first time I’d seen anyone who wasn’t a preacher wear a suit anywhere in Paradise.

HGG arrived half an hour late, entering with a frown and checking out the buffet as he walked to where I waited at my table. His handshake was crisp and professional. “Sorry. Business emergency. You know how it is.”

I shrugged. “Don’t have to worry about those things much myself. There’s something to be said for retirement, semi or otherwise. Hey, how’s your dad?”

“He and Mom are in Rome,” HGG said. “First leg of Dad’s Round the World Farewell tour.”

“Farewell tour?”

“That seems to be the plan. They’re going everywhere, doing everything either of them always wanted to do. Dad says he’s going to stay out on the road until he runs out of road, can no longer remember where the road is, or drops dead.”

HGG’s voice was warm, but I wasn’t sure about his eyes. They weren’t making contact with mine. His monogrammed cuff links seemed to interest him more.

The waitress—not Carrie, who’d made such a big impression on the O.B. when we’d first met, but her latest replacement—trotted over to ask what HGG wanted to drink.

He opted for water. “Agua fria,” he said. Then he turned his head back in my direction, although his gaze still went inward and not at me.

“I know you don’t like me,” HGG said. “You think I treated my father badly. Forced him out of the business. Well, I did force him out, but he earned that when he let his mistress embezzle for all those years.

“You think I’m ungrateful. Cold, calculating. But you don’t have a clue what it was like growing up as the O.B.’s son. For all of my life, Dad’s operated under one major, overriding principle. And I don’t mean, ‘Profit’s the name of the game.’ That’s only for the public.

“Dad’s basic game plan,” HGG continued, “boils down to, ‘Find out what the other person wants more than anything else. Make sure he knows you can give it to him. And then don’t give it. Ever. Because as long as he’s wanting, he’s yours. You own him.’”

HGG’s water arrived. He sipped it absently. “Dad applied that principle to his personal life as well as his business. To his family! Think about it a minute. Think about what it’s like growing up with that.”

I didn’t want to think about it, but I did. “That kind of thing never entered my relationship with your father,” I said. “Because I already have everything in life that I want.”

“Which is why you and he could be such good friends. Why you could respect each other. But as his son there was a lot I wanted. Needed. That the old bastard refused to give.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I said.

“Not because I want to. But I need to, yes.”

“Why aren’t you looking at me while you tell me?”

HGG’s breathing quickened. “Because telling you is like telling him. And I’ve always been afraid to look at him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Willie Nelson’s On The Road Again blared from HGG’s cell phone. As he pulled it from his pocket, he stood up. His eyes met mine at last. “Gotta go,” he said. And, mouthing silently: Thanks.

I watched HGG stride out and get into an SUV much like his father’s.

I didn’t know if what he’d said about the O.B. was true, but I could feel my heart aching for him. I was glad I’d said I was sorry.

But still, I didn’t like him.

Nor was I so sure about my world-traveling friend.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County, Arkansas. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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