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Live! From Paradise! #257

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

Dwayne the Earth Mover called the other day, and he sounded even more surprised than I did.

“Larry B! How you doing? Why didn’t you say good-bye?”

It’s been almost a year since I saw Dwayne last, so it took me a moment to recognize the voice. That seemed to be fine with him because he plunged right on:

“Here I am, figuring life’s like always and you and Gwen the Beautiful are dancing and loving and living the dream, and then I hear from Brannigan that you’ve gone and departed your Mountain for some flatland that’ll be on the ocean floor any day!”

“It’s just for awhile,” I said. “Gwen told Elizabeth what was happening when we saw her at the bank.”

At the mention of his wife, Dwayne was silent for so long I thought his cell had dropped the connection. Then, with his usual fast-talking effervescence: “So what’s it like, starting over in a new place?”

“Tougher than I thought, that’s for sure. Been here a month and still haven’t found the TV remote. The dogs can’t get it into their heads that they don’t have to announce every visitor anymore. Met the neighbor across the street when she came outside to yell at me for yelling in the neighborhood because I was calling out to another neighbor —”

I stopped myself. Because I realized I was running on about…well, about the same kinds of things every move to a new home has brought to my life.

I remembered when I went off to grad school at the University of Iowa and was stopped for speeding just as I crossed the state line. State Trooper got out of his car and came over to my window with a big smile on his face. “Welcome to Iowa, sir!” he said. “Drivers license, please….”

Then there was the time I whisked Gwen to Santa Fe. We’d just gotten married in Vegas, where an Elvis impersonator walked us down the aisle at the Graceland Wedding Chapel and were about to settle down in a house I’d rented on the Santa Clara Pueblo just north of town.

We were treating the drive like a honeymoon. Until we got to Kingman, Arizona, where my hot new truck got so hot it caught fire on I-40. While a local dealer waited for the new driveshaft the truck needed, Gwen and I drove on in a rental car and got home just in time to learn that, as beautiful and modern as the house was, the builders had neglected to install one necessary ingredient.

A heating system that worked.

And how could I forget the first time I wrote anything in this space? It was about an event our first week in Arkansas. When the horse transporters pulled onto the Cloud Creek Ranch driveway with Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Elaine the Not So Wild Mustang. And promptly got stuck in the mud. For a good long time there it seemed as though the wranglers were going to be permanent residents of The Mountain with us.

None of these things compare, though with the Biggest Move I Ever Made. The one to L.A.

It was over 40 years ago, but I still can picture every detail of the night I arrived at LAX. I was heading for the baggage carousel when a white-haired old lady collapsed to the floor in front of the chute.

Immediately, her companion, an only slightly less white-haired woman, bent down to help, wailing, “Somebody get a doctor! My friend is dying! Get a doctor, please!”

That’s when the baggage started coming down. As I stood there, not able to make myself move, I saw all the other passengers surge forward, stepping over the two women without the slightest visible hesitation, and getting their bags.

Another passenger from the flight turned to me. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Welcome to L.A….”

Dwayne didn’t say much as I told him all this. When I finished, he laughed but didn’t sound amused. “The reason Elizabeth didn’t tell me you were going was that we don’t talk much anymore. Me working in Little Rock, her in Paradise, we kinda came to a parting of the ways.”

“I’m sorry, Dwayne,” I said.

“Thanks,” Dwayne said. “And for the stories too. But I hope you understand, bud. Way things are, I’d rather be stuck in the worst beginning ever than the ending I’m in now.”

I didn’t disagree.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #255

Friday, April 16th, 2010

It’s been two weeks since Gwen the Beautiful and I moved into our Paradise Sound home, and in the short time we’ve been here we’ve had so many ups and downs that all I can think of is a phrase famously uttered not only by everyone’s favorite detective, Sherlock Holmes, but also by our fave sociopathic infant, The Family Guy’s Stewie Griffin:

“What the deuce?”

What am I talking about? For openers, this:

Move Ups

Youngest Daughter Amber lives just across the Sound, only an hour and a half away…and that’s when the traffic is bad. Oldest Son Jeb lives straight down the coast in L.A., loves the town, and can’t wait to bring his family here to relax and enjoy.

We’re renting a terrific house. It’s Craftsman-style and was built in the 1930s. It’s also in exactly the neighborhood we wanted. Uptown, a three minute walk from shops and restaurants and smack dab in the middle of the small town Victorian charm that made us love this place when we vacationed here last summer.

Our furniture and other belongings arrived at the same time we did. Intact and ready to use.

Medical services also are just a few minutes away. Even the hospital, located halfway across town, is only a five minute drive.

The restaurants are as good as we remembered.

Our street is famous. Locally anyway. For its friendliness and cohesion. There’s neighborhood this and family that. Our first weekend here was distinguished by a block party. The second by a giant yard sale shared by everyone on the street. If you’re a social kind of person who left your previous abode because it was in the Middle of Nowhere, with the nearest neighbor half a mile away, then the name “Paradise” takes on even more significance than it originally had.

Move Downs

We’re renting a house instead of owning it, and it’s for sale. Which means letting realtors in to show the place. And dealing with a rental agent who means really well but keeps exhausting both of us by working so very hard to make a better impression on me than anyone but my wife and family can. (Hmm, I wonder…If I adopt him, will we both be able to relax?)

Our furniture and other belongings have arrived, but we have no place to put almost half of them. An old house means winding stairs and low bedroom ceilings. Which also means I have to use the downstairs bathroom because I can’t stand upright in the one upstairs. We’re not exactly loaded with closet space either. Most of my clothes are in the guest room. (Luckily, not all my underwear.)

About those medical facilities: I’m even happier they’re close by than I thought I’d be. Because they’re getting way more use than I thought I’d give them. I know I told the world I was coming here to recuperate, but c’mon, Universe, can’t you give me more than two nights in a row when Gwen and I aren’t throwing on our clothes to get me to the E.R.?

The restaurants not only are as good as we remembered, they’re also as expensive.

Our street indeed is loaded with enough friendliness and cohesion for even the most social human. Unfortunately, I chose to live on The Mountain because that description just plain ain’t me. (Gwen, however, is in her glory. People to talk to instead of rocks and trees and animals and spirits! A life that’s real in a way she’s wanted more than she even knew.)

Speaking of spirits, I miss my daily conversations with The Mound in the Cloud Creek Ranch clearing. And nothing in our cute little backyard has said, “I love you” to me yet. Not one dandelion. Nor a squirrel. Nor even one of the zillion bones the dogs have dug up. (Some of which look far too much like they should be yakking away.)

Not that our new digs are entirely without magic. There’s the music that wafts out from within the secret door to nowhere in our bedroom every night. And the sound of a dog that isn’t there barking on the upper deck that should, but doesn’t, connect to the house. Oh, and the nice young Victorian-era couple Gwen can only see out of the corner of her eye….

See what I mean? “What the deuce?” happenings if ever there were any.

Gotta love ‘em.

Hello, Paradise Sound.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #254

Friday, April 9th, 2010

As a result of my recent heart attack and quintuple bypass surgery, Gwen the Beautiful and I have gotten a place in Washington State closer to the rest of our family, along the body of water I think of now as Paradise Sound.

We spent our first night on the West Coast in Seattle, which meant we had our choice of great food and even greater company, Youngest Daughter Amber and Jeremiah the Rugged, who took us for something we’d never been able to get in the Ozarks.

Sushi. Fresh and tasty.

We love hanging with our daughter and sorta-son-in-law. They’re young, intelligent, talented, and, best of all, eager and excited about the myriad possibilities stretching out from this point in their lives.

We didn’t have them all to ourselves for very long, though. Not after I heard a familiar voice just a couple of feet away.

The last time I saw Pete the Wild Man was during the ’90s. He was one of the most in-demand composers in television, scoring three different hit shows and providing theme songs I’m sure many people remember.

Before that, Pete had been a guitarist with a major rock band and, after his over-indulgences became too much even in the days of rockers trashing hotel rooms, limos, and private jets, he’d become a successful session player in L.A.

That’s when he met Madeline. Maddy was an aspiring actress, one of what were known as “those girls,” beautiful young women who frequented all the right places in all the right ways.

What I remembered most about Maddy wasn’t her beauty but her intelligence. In an era where the Rocket to Stardom opened its hatch readily for well-shaped and agreeable ditzes, Maddy was a contrarian with a brain.

Instead of bending over backwards to be what the sugar daddies wanted, she stood her ground, and got what she wanted anyway.

Pete’s first words to me about her said it all. “Some people go along for the ride. Some live like chess players, planning strategy two or three moves ahead. But Maddy’s a general who sees not just the outcome of the battle but how both sides’ll come out of the occupation 20 years down the line.”

(Yep, Pete may have been an insane rocker, but that’s how he spoke.)

Kind of the way Maddy thought.

They were perfect for each other and knew it. Theirs was a love so true that it made Pete over into the hard-working, dedicated, go-to kinda guy with whom I loved working. Maddy changed too. No more cattle call auditions. No more clubbing. She was the Queen of the Mulholland Drive house Pete shared with her, and together they made it a magical retreat.

I’d always been sorry we’d lost touch, so there at the sushi place I was thrilled when I heard:

“Harry Connick Jr. tickets are going for how much? Are they insane? The promoter must be Canadian. Only a Canadian would think @$#ing Harry @$#ing Connick @$#ing Junior had soul.”

I knew that indignation well and leaned over to the speaker. “Hey, he’s got more than Michael Buble.”

“Michael Buble’s not fit to carry Connick’s toiletries—”

And then Pete got it. “Larry B! You survived!”

I can’t remember when I’ve felt a bigger hug. Pete and I held each other tightly. Then he was turning to Gwen, and I was looking at Maddy.

“Gwen!”

“Maddy!”

More hugs. Introductions to Amber and Jeremiah. Happiness all around.

It was a wonderful welcome to a new place. An evening of catching up and celebration. The best part was how clear it was that Pete and Maddy still loved each other like crazy, and how good that made the rest of us feel.

Finally, Pete and Maddy had to go. Pete stood up and went around to Maddy’s chair. He did more than give her his arm. Very carefully, he helped her to her feet and handed her a pair of canes that had been leaning against an empty table nearby.

Maddy secured the canes to her wrists, one at a time. The process seemed to exhaust her, but she just smiled and accepted our surprise. “M.S.,” she said. “Going on year 13 and I’m still mobile. Sometimes anyway.”

Six people exchanged kisses in various combinations. “You’ve got my number now,” Pete said. “If you don’t call after you’re settled in on Paradise Sound I’ll make the place look like the Hollywood Holiday Inn the morning they banned me.”

I watched as Pete slowly helped Maddy outside. Turned to Gwen and the kids. “I always thought of them as the world’s luckiest couple,” I said.

Gwen and Amber replied with the same words at the same time.

“They are,” they said.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between Marion County, Arkansas and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #253

Friday, April 2nd, 2010

It never fails. As soon as you’ve got your plans made and future organized, wham! The Universe comes up with something that changes everything.

Our plan for my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, had been in place for months. Gwen the Beautiful and I would go to Port Paradise with Emmy the Bold, Decker the Service Dog, and Ditsy Dixie, and Huck would remain on The Mountain with the Landry family, which was coming to stay at Cloud Creek Ranch while the rest of us were gone.

The Landrys were cool with this. They’re bringing half a dozen of their own horses anyway, as well as various children, grandchildren, and, as I understand it, a couple of dogs and a rooster. (And if that doesn’t keep the property hopping while Gwen and I are gone, I don’t know what will.)

As usual, Huck was curious about the arrangement. “How many horses?” he said when I told him the plan.

“Well,” I said, “they’ve got about a dozen, but I don’t know if they’re taking them all.”

“How many mares?” Huck said.

“About half of the herd.”

Huck’s ears twitched. He looked concerned. “The rest are stallions? I’m not too sure I like those odds.”

“Mostly geldings, I think,” I told him. “Maybe a couple of young studs.”

Huck isn’t a stallion. But he’s no ordinary gelding. In fact, it’s safe to say he’s the very proudest of “proud cuts.” So when he heard this, he whinnied loudly. Pounded the ground. “I’ll have to show them who’s boss.”

“It’ll turn out fine,” I said.

“Sure,” Huck said. But he didn’t sound sure at all.

I wasn’t that confident either. Huck and I have been together a long time, and to say he’s been spoiled doesn’t begin to do justice to just how spoiled he is. He’s the only horse I’ve ever known who really behaves like the star of a kids’ horse book. As a result, we’ve treated him more like a family member than, say, livestock.

Obviously, that was going to change.

Here, though, is where what Albert Camus called “the benign indifference of the Universe” clearly manifested itself. Just as I was starting to worry about the situation, up drove Marcia Helm.

Marcia’s a dog trainer, first and foremost, and she’s been doing the usual dog trainer things with the Cloud Creek pack, with excellent results. She’s also had her eye on Huck. (Hey, he’s pretty much irresistible to women anyway. Sorrel coat, white blaze, cream-colored mane, big eyes that look right into your heart.)

Marcia has great rapport with most animals, and every time she came over she’d spend a lot of time with Huck, giving him carrots and scratching his chin. “I really miss having horses,” she’d say. “I’ve got just the perfect area to fence in for one or two. How does he ride?”

Marcia stopped in our clearing, got out of her car. “Hey, Ms. Dog Whisperer,” I said. “Want to go for a ride?”

She knew I wasn’t talking about cruising down Main Street. A few minutes later, Marcia had all of Huck’s tack ready to go and was brushing and picking and getting him ready to roll. A few minutes after that, she was on his back —

And Huck was bucking.

Not a lot. Just enough to say, “Wait a minute here. It’s been a long time.”

Marcia was no novice to be easily thrown. She did better than just hold on, she let Huck know who was in charge…in a smooth, confident way that also showed him he was respected and loved. Huck trembled, then totally relaxed. Off they went together, around the clearing and down the driveway.

An hour later, when they came back, it wasn’t as horse and rider but as one beautiful being. A centaur. Contentment and exhaustion exuded from both.

“He wants to come home with me, ‘Dad,’” Marcia said. “Is it okay? Huh? Huh?”

I eyeballed Huck. “That what you want, My Brother?”

“Well, she’s not much of a listener,” Huck said. “And bossy? Whew!”

“I heard that,” Marcia said. She stepped out of the saddle, lighting on the ground.

“She is tall and blond,” I pointed out.

Huck blew out of the side of his mouth, the equine equivalent of a Happy Face. “And she’s got gentle hands,” he said.

“Heard that too,” Marcia said, and she hugged him.

The two of them beamed.

This weekend, Marcia’s fencing in a corral.

The Universe strikes again.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and various animals divide their time between Marion County, Arkansas and Puget Sound. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #252

Friday, March 26th, 2010

My mention in this space that Gwen the Beautiful and I are going to Washington State for an indefinite time of rest and recuperation has garnered an array of responses, pretty much running the gamut from this, from “Yvonne:”

“It was with a heavy heart that I read your column on March 5 … I have read every single column you have written…have enjoyed every single one … Please tell me that you will still be writing even if it has to be from Port Paradise. Paradise will not be the same without you and Gwen, the Beautiful and your assorted cast of characters.

“I wish you continued good health as you recover from your surgery. My husband had the same kind of surgery … in … 2006. He claims to be feeling the best he has in years …

“I have found as I have grown older, that, as much as I sometimes resist change, good things are always waiting for me when I get brave enough to forge ahead. I am sure that will be true for you and Gwen.

“Bless you, and I pray that you will continue to use the gift of writing to touch people where they truly reside-deep in their hearts.”

To this, from “Benjamin:”

“So, that’s it, then? You’ve surrendered your life to Fear just like everyone else because your body let you down. I thought you, of all people, would realize your heart attack was just another Lesson the Universe handed you. Instead, you threw it all away … and ran for ’safety.’

“I’ve read your columns since the very first one and enjoyed them … I even changed some of my behavior because of what you wrote. No more.

“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am or how much you’ve let me down. Go to your ordinary life in some ordinary town and know this was one Lesson you didn’t learn.”

Even though I’m probably the world’s biggest believer in a good laugh, at heart I am, in the words of the Coen Brothers, “a serious man,” and I’ve taken these two emails, and every message in between, very seriously indeed.

Many people might look into themselves and question their actions, as in, “Oh my God! Am I doing the right thing? Have I gotten from this experience what the Universe wanted me to?”

Others might take the opposing perspective: “Who do these people think they are, judging my response? How dare they curse or even bless me for what I do and say?”

For a few seconds there, I followed each of these paths, but ultimately I found myself on a different one altogether. We’re all different from each other, “snowflakes” as many people have said (some with great sincerity and others while being snarky as all get-out) and throughout my life more often than not I’ve been so different from most other people that I’ve felt like a member of a whole ‘nuther species.

Maybe it’s my Asperger’s.

More likely, it’s simply because I’m a writer.

In this situation, because I’m a writer I ended up examining both what I’m doing and people’s reactions to it in terms of my responsibility as a creative being, as an artist … because the one thing I know best about myself is that an artist is what I truly am.

As an artist, I have two responsibilities.

One is to my audience. Writing is all about communication, and if I don’t have an audience, or can’t establish a link with an audience, then I’ve got nothing at all. Might as well daydream my little adventures, or misadventures, and let them evaporate into the smoke of pure imagination.

My other responsibility is to myself. To be honest and true and write what I believe. Most importantly, if I’m going to write about my life, then I also have to live in terms of what I believe. This is what I’ve done and will continue to do, no matter where I reside or where my work appears.

For ole Larry B, it boils down to this: Life is a hike up a steep, treacherous mountain. As I hike, I chronicle the trip for all who want to read about it. I work hard to maintain our connection, to entertain a bit, teach a bit, and learn a bit more.

My thanks to everyone for caring about what happens to the Brodys next. It’s good for all of us when we can laugh, or cry, or grow furious together, even — maybe especially — as I fall.

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 March 26, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #251

Friday, March 19th, 2010

Got a call from none other than The Old Billionaire yesterday morning.

Yep, he interrupted his World Farewell Tour (as in, “It’s time to say hello-goodbye to all the places I’ve never been to before I go to my Final Destination) to wake me up with the ultimate weapon in the armory of everyone who has a child:

“Larry B, I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Huh? Wha …? That you, O.B.?”

“It’s not Sarah Palin,” the O.B. said. “Man, I leave the country and not only do you come close enough to death to shave the Good Lord’s whiskers, you hold out on me about it. And not just on me, on everybody who reads your words.”

I was still clouded by sleep, but finally, “What’re you talking about, O.B.? Where are you?” I managed to say.

“Netty and I were looking at some property in Costa Rica when the earthquake hit in Chile. Since then we’ve been in a tent in Valdivia, working with the Red Cross. Every day I wake up thinking it’s going to be my last, and every day I thank the creator in advance for letting me go out doing something better than making money.”

“Not like you to pay in advance,” I said.

“Well, you know what happens when you do that. You get cheated. So I keep on having to live and fear my end. A fear you might be able to ease if you’d come clean.”

“About what?” I said.

“You said that after your heart attack you had the big dream, the one we all want,” said the O.B. “You know, the Secret of the Universe dream. But you haven’t told us what it was, boy, and I need to know before it’s too late.”

He was right. I haven’t written about the dream. Not because I’ve been holding out but because, “Now that time has passed I don’t really think it was all that much,” I told the O.B.

“Let me be the judge,” the O.B. said. “How’s that?”

I shrugged. I knew he couldn’t see me, but I did it anyway. “I dreamed I was outside, in the middle of a ruined city…” I said.

“Uh-oh,” said the Old Billionaire.

“It looked like a bomb had hit. Or a hurricane.”

“Or an earthquake?”

“Um … maybe that too. People were standing all around, watching while I fought for my life.”

“Fought who? Out with it now!”

“A giant. He was the one who’d destroyed the city, and now he was determined to destroy me. He swung fists like bulldozers and pounded me and pounded me and pounded me. I was battered and bloody and didn’t know what to do.”

“Didn’t you hit him back?” the O.B. said.

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. My arms weighed tons. I was sure I was going to die, and I was terrified. But you know me,” I said. “I was also curious. The giant’s face was all in shadow, and all I wanted, before the end, was to see it, to know who he was.”

The O.B. knows me indeed. He grunted.

I hurried on. “The giant bent down to pick me up and throw me to the ground one last time, and finally I could see his face. It was huge and twisted and purple and brown and black with rage, but I recognized him immediately.

“The giant who had destroyed everything around me and was about to let loose the final blow was me.”

“What happened then? When you saw him?” the Old Billionaire demanded.

“I escaped the only way I could. I woke up.”

My heart was racing. At the other end of the line, the O.B. was silent. Then:

“I’ve had that dream,” the O.B. said, “every night since we got here. Me, fighting myself. Sometimes I fight back. And sometimes I tell the other me, ‘I forgive you’ and deliberately do nothing.

“But no matter what, when I wake up the result’s the same. I’m in the middle of more suffering than I ever could imagine. Real suffering. Not a dream.

“I think your dream is ‘all that much,’ Larry B.,” the Old Billionaire continued. “You just have to be careful about the meaning. All the hell we find on earth isn’t our fault. We don’t have that much power.”

The O.B. hung up. But not until he’d passed the real Secret of the Universe on to me. “Only thing we can destroy,” he said, “is ourselves.”

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 March 19, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #250

Friday, March 12th, 2010

Back in high school, my Cousin Barry was my hero.

To me, Barry, a couple of years older than I, good-looking and athletic, was perfect. His perfection really impressed itself on me when he came to stay with my family for a couple of weeks.

It was during that period, when I saw and talked to my cousin everyday, that his coolness etched itself permanently into my brain.

He gave me advice on how to attract girls: “Pay attention to her if you like her!”

How to survive P.E. Class: “Keep yelling for the other players to pass the ball to you and the coach’ll think you actually know how to catch it!”

How to pass my Drivers License Test: “Parallel parking. Most people can’t do it, so the testers are suckers for anyone who can!”

Most of all, Cousin Barry made me laugh at just about everything during a period when everything usually made me cry. Who could ask for more from any relative or friend?

Over the years, Cousin Barry and I have alternated between being close and being not so close, but the closeness always wins out.

Its most recent manifestation has been in the past few weeks. Like me, Barry has had heart bypass surgery, and his words in a couple of Facebook messages are important enough to pass on to anyone who finds him or herself in the post-bypass surgery state:

“Around month four of my recovery I noticed a little depression starting to manifest itself. I was warned of that happening by a psychiatrist friend. I waited three weeks, during which I became more depressed, and called the friend for a prescription. Depression left in about a month, but it was replaced by anxiety. We upped the dosage and all was well …

“I first realized something was wrong,” Cousin Barry continued in another message, “reading the reaction of friends … to my responses to the simple question of ‘How are you?’ I saw that I was going on in great detail and in a negative manner about how I was feeling …

“[This] caused me to examine my other thoughts and come to the conclusion that something was amiss …

“That’s my story, cuz. If it fits your situation, take heed. If not, then @#$! you for being so healthy!”

I haven’t hit the four-month mark yet and honestly don’t know if I’m depressed or not. I do know that because of the physical limitations set upon me, the recovery process isn’t just part of what’s happening in Brody World right now, it’s all that’s happening, and in and of itself that doesn’t seem very healthy.

In the dark moments when I’m feeling most helpless physically, I find myself more angry than depressed. Angry at myself for getting into this situation, certainly, but also angry at the self-contradictory medical advice others (including my cousin) and I have gotten.

In the hospital before the surgery I was told, “Oh, you’ll be feeling so much better after two weeks.” After the surgery the word was “At four weeks your chest will be well-knitted and you’ll be able to use your arms more normally.”

But at four weeks I heard “You’re not going to be able to cope the way you used to until the six-week mark,” followed by “Wait till you see the big difference at eight weeks,” and, now, at eight weeks: “Well, you know your breastbone won’t be fully healed until 12 weeks after the surgery” and, “By the time a year has passed you’ll be your old self — only better.”

I’m as fond of benchmarks as the next guy. Fonder, maybe, because I’m always looking for ways to measure my progress in just about everything I do. But in this particular situation it’s not that the benchmarks are so difficult to attain, it’s that just as I think I’m about to attain one it gets snatched away.

Most of the time, though, my overall feeling is one of excitement. I’m energized by the challenge of getting better. And also by the further challenge of having to learn to be patient and become more aware of how my body feels so I can go with it instead of pushing, as I usually do. Overall, I look at this as another lesson that’ll improve my quality of life in many ways.

Meanwhile, I’ve got some final words for you, Cousin Barry. “Thanks for the lowdown, and @#$! you for being so healthy too!”

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 March 12, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #248

Friday, February 26th, 2010

I’m feeling very “Larry” today.

I know that sounds strange. I am Larry, after all, so how else could I feel?

Well, for four weeks, “weak,” “tired,” and “anxious” in various combinations with “in pain” pretty much described my postheart-attack-and-bypass-surgery condition. But last night, at about 2 a.m., I realized that no longer was the case.

I woke up as I have every post-op night, pulled myself up and out of bed using only my stomach and thigh muscles (no hands or arms allowed!), hied myself to the bathroom to perform the necessary ablutions …

And realized that something was different.

Amazingly so.

Wonderfully so.

My pain level was the same as it’s been for the past several days, but it didn’t bother me anymore. My breastbone ached, but instead of dominating my being it was just a background effect. Like a mild headache. Or muscle stiffness after a workout.

Instead of overwhelming me, the pain in my chest simply felt — familiar. Almost comfortable, in a strange way, as though my chest was saying, “Yo, Larry B., I’m still here, still part of you. I’ve got your heart here in my hands and am taking the best care of it I can.”

“Thanks, chest,” I whispered, keeping my voice as low as possible so Gwen the Beautiful wouldn’t hear me.

I had two reasons for that. Firstly, I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. Secondly, I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. (Ain’t a lot of sane guys I know who’ll cop to talking to their chests while listening to the toilet flush.)

But I meant what I was saying, and it seemed perfectly reasonable for my chest to be able to hear and understand my appreciation. I’d heard and understood it, hadn’t I?

“No problem,” my chest replied. “Just doing my job.”

And then it said to me what everything says to me when we talk. My body. The house. The trees. The Wind. And the Universe itself.

“I love you,” it said.

“And I love you, dude,” I whispered back with what I knew was a great big smile.

I took a pain med and went back to bed. In the morning, I woke up to the sound of Ditsy Dixie whining and barking. Beside me, Gwen stirred, but I told her to go back to sleep and went down the stairs to let all the dogs out.

Although I wasn’t rushing, I saw that I was taking the steps one at a time, which was a change from the way I’d been descending since returning from the hospital. Until this morning my M.O. had been to do the one step with one foot — then catch up with the other foot — then repeat on the next step semi-crab-walk.

I’d thought of that as “The Invalid Walk” and been kind of ashamed of it. But now the need for it was gone. I felt confident. Secure.

As the morning progressed I found myself falling into my old, pre-heart-out-to-get-me routine. I made coffee, checked my e-mail, then made toast. Oh, and I stretched, reaching high overhead and out to the side with my arms, then stretching my legs and arching my back as well.

This was a Big Deal because until that moment I’d been afraid to arch my back, thinking somehow that would … well, make my chest explode. I’d had a lot of illogical exploding chest thoughts. But this morning they were gone. Gone so far that I had to work at recalling how they felt, and not for the life of me could I imagine why I’d let them have such a big influence on my recent life.

All day it’s been like that — normal shower, normal getting dressed, normal swearing at the Japanese Beetles cum Ladybugs crawling inside the windows, normal food taste, normal energy level (mentally anyway).

“Thank you, Universe,” I’ve said more than once, but upon reflection I understand that this miracle isn’t really that at all. Last week, Debra, my surgeon’s nurse (who looks like a better-looking Kate Hudson), explained that because of the surgery my hormone balance had shifted but that I shouldn’t worry because it would shift back.

I didn’t understand until today … specifically until I looked at Gwen and felt the kind of stirring I hadn’t experienced since before I went into the hospital.

“I love you, hormones,” I said.

And not only did I not try to keep Gwen from hearing, I wanted her to know.

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 February 26, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #247

Friday, February 19th, 2010

It’s been four weeks since my quintuple heart bypass surgery, and the most difficult aspect of the situation to deal with has been just that — the four weeks.

Time.

Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve always been a sprinter. An instant-gratification kind of guy.

“I want —”

“I need —”

And zap, I go out there on the hunt and I get.

I know I’m not the most virtuous man on the planet, but as the days of discomfort have crawled by it’s become increasingly clear that the virtue I most lack is patience.

I can’t go out and hunt for health. I can’t force my new arteries to mesh smoothly and perfectly with my heart. Can’t grab my incisions by their scruff and holler, “Heal, damn you!”

All I can do is take my meds and eat my veggies and rest in the new recliner and engage in the kind of exercise I would’ve mocked just a month ago (“Oh, boy, I’m walking around the house for six and a half minutes. S-l-o-w-l-y. Oh wow.”), and wait.

And, man, do I ever stink at waiting.

All together now. Let’s hear it for Larry B.:

“Sigh …”

I’m furious at myself for handling things as I’ve been. For trying to get way too much work done. For cursing at every twinge. For constantly telling my body, “You can do this. You can step over the doggy gate. You can stretch way up there to the back of the closet shelf and take down that old pair of shoes. You can toss that garbage can around like a popcorn-stuffed stocking, no problem.”

Because I can’t.

Stepping over the doggy gate or stretching my arms to the back of the closet or schlepping the garbage means losing my balance. Means catching myself by pushing against the wall. Means flexing stiff chest muscles and making myself wonder for a terrifying second if I’ve totally undone a month of breastbone healing.

“Ouch!”

That’s me.

“Take it easy, sweetie. I’ll get it for you.”

That’s Gwen the Beautiful.

“I don’t want to take it easy. I don’t want you to get it for me.”

Me again, of course.

“I know that, honey. I understand.”

Gwen again, naturally. “But I want to be there for you. The way you’ve always been there for me.”

I always thought it would be easy — more than easy, it would be wonderful — to be taken care of. To let others attend to my needs. Used to joke about how I’d married a woman substantially younger than I was “so she can push my wheelchair when the time comes.”

I was wrong.

Being a caregiver when Gwen had her “early” stroke was a walk in the park, psychologically, compared to being taken care of by her now. Helping someone I loved was the most natural thing in the world to me. But being helped, ah, it’s alien, icky, wrong.

A voice inside my head keeps crying out. “I can do it. I can do it. I’m really okay!”

A voice created by pride.

By habit.

By fear.

Fear of revealing weakness.

Fear of revealing fear itself.

Fear of becoming too demanding, too difficult to deal with. And, because of that, of pushing away my Team Brody partner.

Of losing her love.

Physically, I’m so much better than I was a week ago that I can barely remember what that old feeling was. I’m out. I’m about. In fact, at fifteen pounds lighter than before the heart attack, I’m most amazingly fit. Most of the time, my body feels like me again, only even better.

Actively good.

Hearty.

Sound.

Psychologically, though, I’ve become my own whipping boy. Talk about a self-defeating state of mind!

My doctors, my friends and family who’ve been through this same surgery, and Web site after Web site tell me that what I’m experiencing is normal. “They’ve got meds just for this,” they say. “Take ‘em.”

I dunno about that. For most of my life, my way of controlling my emotions, of handling the blues, has been to move into the moment and appreciate the highs and the lows as the transient miracles they are.

And to write about them. Share ‘em. Own them by giving ‘em away.

Hey, what do you know? In the words of that immortal songstress, Britney Spears, “Oops, I did it again.”

Thanks for listening.

Couldn’t carry it off without you, y’know.

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 February 19, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #245

Friday, February 5th, 2010

One of the most reassuring aspects of life is its regularity. Regularly recurring events like the phases of the moon, the seasons, and, in Paradise, the cresting of the Buffalo National River give me feelings of dependability and reliability. Kind of a, “Hey! The chiggers are back! All’s right with the world!”

Turns out that my life also has its recurring events. In fact, one of them raised its not-insignificant head just three weeks ago.

Not, however, in what I think of as a reassuring way.

Thirty-two and a half years ago, when I was just a lad, I had the massive heart attack I’ve written about in this space before.

And in mid-January of this year I had another one.

Thirty-two and a half years after the first, give or take a few weeks.

On one hand, this is horrifying. On the other it’s just plain cool. If not for the pain and other consequences I’d be spending delightful hour upon hour analyzing and puzzling and trying every which way to figure out why I’m getting these regularly scheduled wake-up calls.

Who or what has set up the timer?

Why?

When?

That kind of thing.

All right, I admit it. I am putting in those hours. Can’t help myself. It’s how I’m wired. I’ve gotten some answers to my questions too. Mostly in dream time, where I’ve found myself confronting my past, present, and future, my dead parents and former friends and lovers, my enemies too.

The result of all this introspection is that I have a whole new outlook on life and reality … and what may be a genuine inkling of the true nature of the Secret of the Universe itself.

Or not.

Doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that I’m alive to throw myself into the search.

My heart attack occurred over a period of four days. Started when I was picking up trash some not-so-friendly neighborhood dog or coyote or bear or whatever had strewn all over the Cloud Creek driveway. Chest pain for 20 minutes, then the all-clear. Then pain again, until at last I wised up and told Gwen the Beautiful what was going on.

Gwen made the right call, and soon I was in an ambulance, heading for the emergency room, receiving a life-saving supply of oxygen and morphine and nitro pills. Two days after this particular race for life, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.

Four days after that I was home.

Two days later, I was in front of the computer, trying — and failing — to work.

The aftermath of the surgery has been “interesting,” à la the ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

Some of the time has been horrific, infused not only with pain but also with a sense of helplessness that has left me afraid to take the next breath.

But some of the time has been wonderful too. Peaceful. Filled with powerful emotions … and with a true awareness of the old saw about wherever there’s life there’s hope. I find myself more hopeful than ever, and filled with excitement about facing the challenge of recovery and the re-assumption of the mantle of ambition/aspiration that has always been my defining characteristic.

This time around, I find my surgery more meaningful than the heart attack itself. My moment-to-moment activity is, for all practical purposes, a response to having been cut open, messed around with, and then closed up again.

For example, I’m now terrified of lying on my back. Because it’s unsafe to use my hands to pull or push myself up (might strain my carved-up breastbone and keep it from healing properly, as well as hurt like hell), I’ve got to struggle into the next position using only my abs.

And you’re not going to catch me using a knife for awhile. Because I keep thinking I won’t be able to control it and, snick!, it’ll end up in my chest.

I’m not too keen on showering or bathing either. Because, “Aargh! The water, it’s beating on my chest wounds! And on my torn-up left leg, where they took out veins to make into arteries replacing those that were blocked!”

But this will pass. Each day gets exponentially better. Today, so far, has been pain-free. And Gwen and Burl Jr. are taking good care of me and the ranch.

Even as I get better I ponder about the future and what’s in store 32 1/2 years from now.

Wonder if I’ll be able to report on it here.

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 February 5, 2010

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