The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Donner Party List, and Other Miscellaneous Mat...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: The Donner Party List, and Other Miscellaneous Mat...: Donner Party Memorial I've made reference to my Donner Party List before in my blog. The references I've made have been in su...

The Donner Party List, and Other Miscellaneous Matters Related to Food

Donner Party Memorial

I've made reference to my Donner Party List before in my blog. The references I've made have been in such context that i really didn't need to explain what was meant by the term. Thus, I've never really discussed anything about it or how it came into existence.

I was born a picky eater. My parents did their best to force preemie formula down my throat as soon as I was strong enough to eat on my own. Preemies are often fed through tubes directly into their stomachs, apparently. At that point, food wasn't much of an issue. I'm convinced now, knowing what I know, that the only reason it wasn't an issue even then was that the tube bypassed my taste buds. If I had been able to taste the liquid taste-equivalent to furniture polish (I'm making a wild assumption, but when formula is bypassing babies' taste buds, much thought cannot be put into how it tastes) that they were inserting through the tube into my stomach, I surely would have found a way with my uncoordinated little hands to pull that tube right out of my stomach.

Once I was home, my parents couldn't get me to drink the formula from my bottle. My Aunt Ilianna, who isn't a relative by marriage or birth but is still my aunt nonetheless, brought the youngest of her four children, five-year-old Timmy, and came to stay with us for about a month. (My mom had done the same for her when she had a preemie and three other children-- one not yet two -- for which to care.)

My Aunt Ilianna is a nurse-practitioner who specializes in neonates. Both she and my father wanted my mother to switch my brother to formula and to nurse me. My mother refused.  My aunt concluded that I didn't like the formula, and that other preemie formula brands were on the market. She went to my  pediatrician's office and got two sample cans each of three other brands of formula designed for preemies.  the second one, while presumably not tasting quite like A & W root beer, was at least not so disgusting that I refused to consume it, although I supposedly drooled out at least as much as I drank.

One night my parents had not been monitoring their supply of my formula, and found that they had run out of the stuff that I would drink. They still had one can of the stuff my aunt picked up at the pediatrician's office that I had tried  and rejected, and two cans of the stuff I had not tried. They decided on the untried brand.  They might just as well have tried to feed me Pine-sol as far as the taste was concerned. They tried the other stuff, but it was no better. if they tried to feed me, I screamed because I hated the formula. If they didn't try to feed me, I screamed because I was hungry. My mother even tried breastfeeding me, but that didn't work either because I didn't quite have the technique down and couldn't manage to get anything. It finally occurred to my father at about 4:00 a.m.to boil sugar in water and cool it to just above room temperature. I was still a bit reluctant to take it, my mom said, but I eventually must have figured out that it was as good as it was going to get. I drank it and conked out from sheer exhaustion, as did my parents. The next morning my pediatrician sent a nurse over  early with an emergency supply right after my dad called because he knew how tired my parents were.

when it was time to switch form preemie formula, which didn't happen until I was almost six months, my parnts went through the same ordeal of trying one brand after another, only to have me reject it. Though the specific age at whch I spoke my first words is a major source of debate to my parents, it was during this trial-and-error period with formula that I spoke my first words. Somewhere between almost six months and seven months, when mymother reached for a can of SMA brand formula to mix it for me, I said clearly, "No SMA!"  Shocked but still thnking clearly, she carried me over to the pantry and held up different cans.When she got to Gerber, I reached for it, and the decision was made.

I've been picky about everything that went into my mouth since then, and it's been a subject of much dissent since then.  My father was adamant that it was not acceptable for watermelon, bananas, and grapes to be the only fruit or vegetable (all technically fruits and none vegetables,but that was a minor point in the grand scheme of things) that I ate. Even of what I liked, I ate very little. One quarter of a sandwich was more than enough.. I liked peanut butter sandwiches but God forbid anyone put the slightest amount of jelly on my peanut butter sandwich, or even used the same knife to cut my peanut butter sandwich after cutting my brother's peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

One summer when my brother and I were four, just before kindergarten, our family had driven home from Reno or Tahoe and had stopped at Truckee to view some of the Donner Party exhibits.  All my brother got out of it was that people had been stranded there and were cold and hungry, and that some had starved. I could read considerably better than Matthew, and one of the main reasons for which the Donner Party was known was not lost on me.

Not long after visiting the Donner party exhibits, eggplant was served for dinner.  'I'm not eating this goop!" I announced.

"Yes, you are!" my dad responded.

"Do whatever you want  to me, " I announced, but I'm not eating this eggplant ," (I spoke the word as though merely saying it might make me ill) "and there's nothing you can do that will force me to swallow it. " My father had forced food into my mouth on occasion. "Even if I was in the Donner Party, I wouldn't eat this goop.  I'd eat part of Tamsin Donner's leg before I would eat this garbage."

My parents, thoroughly taken by surprise, burst into laughter.  At that point, the concept of the Donner Party List was born.  I was allowed to name ten foods that I would be allowed to skip whenever they were served. Eggplant was at the very top of the list. It was a constant argument as to whether or not I could replace one Donner Party list item for another, and I  soon decided that ten was too small a number to accommodate my dislikes.  Eventually the list became a big joke, and my parents just tried to get me to eat a reasonably balanced diet and enough to stay alive.

Matthew never needed anything resembling a Donner Party List. If something even looked like food, for the most part, he ate it.  We couldn't even have realistic-looking play food in our Little Tikes kitchen  because it it looked real enough, Matthew would eat it. Once he gnawed his way all the way through a plastic pickle. The only actual food  I recall Matthew turning his nose up at was mushrooms. Once we were served something with truffles at some hoity-toity function we attended with my grandparents, Matthew wouldn't eat those, either. I suppose he had an issue with fungi.

Another member of the family had issues with absolutely no form of food,including fungi. Once when we went to my grandparents' home, they had been out of the country for a month. A carton of cottage cheese had been inadvertently left in the refrigerator. In the time it had been left there, a sizable amount of what was formerly cottage cheese had turned t mold. my Uncle Mahonri, who was also at my grandparents' home, too the cottage cheese container, opened it, and began eating it, mold and all.  My Uncle Michael, who at that time was probably completing his medical internship, saw what my uncle was eating. "Mahonri, you can't eat that!' he exclaimed. ""It's covered in mold."

"Mold isn't anything but penicillin," Mahonri offered by way of explanation. "And penicillin is good for you." He continued to eat away the moldy substance. At this point I could hear what was being said, but couldn't actually see anything.

Uncle Michael sighed as though he didn't know where to begin. "Penicillin is not 'good for you,' he explained to Uncle Mahonri. "It's actually a fairly toxic substance. That's why it works against some illnesses. Sometimes when you're sick, penicillin is the lesser of the two evils as opposed to allowing the illness to ravage your body, but in and of itself, it is not 'good for you.'  And, for that matter, mold is not penicillin.  Penicillin can be made from mold, but mold by itself is not penicillin."

Uncle Mahonri continued to spoon the concoction in his mouth.

My Uncle Steve wandered in and asked what was happening. Uncle Michael filled him in. Uncle Steve, then in his medical residency, said, "Michael, it's not worth your time.  It's just like trying to reason with  that rock out there." Uncle Steve pointed at a mid-sized bolder of granite placed in my grandparents' yard for landscaping purposes.

By this point, I was highly curious as to just what it was Uncle Mahonri was eating.  I crept around the table so I could have a look. I immediately began to gag. My Uncle Steve picked me up and held my head over the sink while I emptied the contents of my stomach, then ran the water and used the nozzle to rinse the sink. Uncle Michael grabbed the moldy cottage cheese container and tossed it into the trash. Mahonri protested, but Uncle Michael told him he couldn't eat food in the presence of a child if it made her sick, and that, for that matter, it practically made him [Uncle Michael] sick.  After I finished throwing up , Uncle Steve gave me a glass of water to rinse my mouth out, wet a cloth and washed my face with it, and put me on a sofa in a nearby room with a trash can next to me just in case it was needed.

The next item that went on my Donner Party List was cottage cheese, and no one complained even though it brought the number of items on my list to eleven.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: dueling banjos and appropriate parent-child physic...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: dueling banjos and appropriate parent-child physic...: How far is the link . . . . . .between Pat Boone and dueling banjoes? The whole Pat Boone matter causes me to ponder t...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: dueling banjos and appropriate parent-child physic...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: dueling banjos and appropriate parent-child physic...: How far is the link . . . . . .between Pat Boone and dueling banjoes? The whole Pat Boone matter causes me to ponder t...

dueling banjos and appropriate parent-child physical contact once a kid has reached adolescence or beyond

How far is the link . . .

. . .between Pat Boone and dueling banjoes?

The whole Pat Boone matter causes me to ponder the level of physical contact in various contexts between parents and their children that is appropriate once a child is beginning to reach or has reached physical maturity.  While I find Pat Boone's former disciplinary practices strange to say the least, I would not suggest that the man is or was a pervert or that his actions were motivated but anything other than a desire, however ill-guided,  to be a good parent. Such is probably the case between most parents and their maturing children in terms of physical contact. The vast majority of what goes on out there falls within a range that would be considered perfectly normal.

Pat Boone's spanking of his daughters beyond their eighteenth birthdays in at least one or two cases is deviant behavior to me, however well-motivated.  I can't think of a situation that would cause my father to strike my bottom at my current age of eighteen. The last time he did so, I  was fifteen, which is arguably a bit past the point when such would take place, but it was a single strike over a fully clothed body, and occurred as a result of my having forged his signature on a form that allowed me to parasail when my healing leg probably was not sufficiently healed. In my father's defense, my body was not yet approaching puberty, if physical development  in any way trumps chronological age. At the time I was outraged, but in retrospect, his action was not as inappropriate a I had considered it to be  at the time. I'm still not sure I'd recommend it to another parent, but all's well that ends well. It did make me think twice about forging his name on any other document.  Perhaps he was concerned that my next act of forgery might be on his prescription pad, which might have led to legally, physically, and psychologically disastrous consequences.

My family has friends who have two daughters.  The older of the daughters is twenty, and has been physically mature since she was approximately eleven. Almost anytime our families are together, she finds some reason to crawl into her father's lap and to remain their for a lengthy interval. I can remember as early as when I was eleven, which would have made the girl thirteen, my parents discussing on the way home from our visit with this family that they, my parents,  were uncomfortable with the amount of time this physically mature girl sat on her father's lap. They weren't overly judgmental - my mom suggested that the girl's emotional maturity might be nowhere near her level of  physical maturity, but that there might be more appropriate ways for the two of them to exchange affection. As I recall from both that incident and subsequent incidents and discussions (the behavior is still happening to some degree) nothing in the family dynamics suggests that anything weird beyond the girl sitting on her father's lap is happening, and other family interactions, both between the father and daughter and between other family members  seem to fit within the boundaries of propriety. still, the behavior in question in and of itself is, to y parents and my, somewhat odd.

The last time I recall sitting on my on father's lap was when I was fifteen, which is possibly older than some would consider proper for such father-daughter contact.   I was in a hospital, in traction with a horribly mangled leg. Despite that the wound on my leg was still open and I was not allowed to have visitors beyond immediate fqmily because of the possibility of germs and contamination,  a girl (who probably felt entitled because her mother was a nurse on the floor) entered my hospital room  to do me the ostensible favor of letting me know that the boy with whom I had a date to the prom, had cancelled our date without informing me and would be attending the prom with her instead. She also snapped cell phone photos of me in a very disheveled state, as it was Wednesday, and my hair had not been shampooed since the previous Saturday morning. I cannot recall precisely what about this visit caused me to cry, but I seem to recall it as being a combination of factors. my leg and fractured clavicle hurt terribly in spite of drugs Iwas being given to control pain and to fight infection. I was cold but unable to communicate this to anyone. I was not coherent enough to make it clear to anyone that the drugs were not sufficiently relieving what they were intended to relieve. I felt both groggy and physically ill from all the medications I was being given. While I may have been upset by learning of the cancellation of my prom date, I was far more upset by the girl's loud and intrusive visit, and by the flash of light from her cell phone camera. The the girl and the charge nurse of the shift began a loud dispute and a struggle over the girl's cell phone, the noise from which hurt my ears and head,  as the charge nurse knew the girl had used her cell hone to photograph me in traction and in an unflattering state of appearance.  Th nurse was concerned that these photographs might be used to publicly humiliate me. As the nurse in charge, she didn't wish to be blamed for the occurrence of such.

At some point, my response to the situation was to cry. I had groaned,  gasped, and moaned, up to that point during various phases of trearment of my injury, and had even uttered a few profanities,  but had not cried.  The nurses tried to comfort me and get me to top crying, but had no success. They eventually paged my father, who came to my room immediately. When he was not able to say or do anything to cause my crying to stop, he disconnected e from my traction devices and lifted me onto his lapin the adjacent rocker-recliner, where I remained until the wee hours of the morning. This action would have been, in the eyes of many, highly inappropriate, as I was fifteen years old at the time. I was, however, a fifteen-year-old with the physical development of more like a ten-year-old, and the circumstances were most extenuating. I don't for a moment regret what my father did, nor do I suspect he regrets it. It was at the time the only thing he could think of that might have made me feel even slightly better, and it did ease my physical and emotional  burdens to a degree. Nurses wrapped me in blankets, and it was the first time in days I remembered not feeling cold.

After I was physically attacked by a male and two females in  a school restroom, and then after the three perpetrators of the attack and another male propelled a rock and a brick through my bedroom window the next night by using a high-powered slingshot, I developed a form of anxiety that later turned into post-traumatic stress disorder, otherwise known as PTSD. When it did not respond readily to the treatment of a local practitioner, it was recommended that I seek help st a residential treatment facility.

The facility was hundreds of miles from my home. I would remain at the facility for roughly a month, ad then would  come home for  a brief visit.  My father usually accompanied me on the return trip, as his trip often coincided with a work-related visit to one or more  hospital in the area or further south. When my father dropped me off at the facility, he usually took me to my room. We would lie down on my bed together and talk for an hour or so before he left me. We didn't get under the covers together, as, for one thing, we were both clothed, but if we were cold, we'd each have our own separate blanket.  One particular nurse walked into our room when we were on my bed together. We weren't engaged in an embrace of any sort -- in fact, don't believe there was any physical contact between us and, as I recall, only I was cold and was wrapped in a blanket, as my father was dressed in sweats and was sufficiently warm.  The nurse  turned red and muttered something like, "I seem to be interrupting something."

My father replied, "Yes, we are having a private conversation, but if there's something you need to do, go ahead with it, and we'll continue with what we're talking about afterward. I recognize that you have a schedule you need to follow."

The nurse took my vital statistics, then left the room, still red-faced, and not saying anything else.

A few minute later, my dad's close friend and the director of the facility, Dr. Jeff, came into the room. He sat down into a chair. He sighed and said, "I'm not sure exactly how to tell you this, but the nurse who was just in here will probably file a CPS report."

"What?" my dad and  exclaimed in unison.

"She thought she saw something improper," Dr. Jeff continued, " and the other nurses and I were unable to reason with her  about what she saw. And, as you know, if she's making a report in good faith, no job superior can stop her no matter how wrong she is."

The nurse made the report by telephone and followed up with the required written report. Nothing came of it.  I would like to think it was because the social worker on the other end of the line saw
nothing about which to be concerned with what he or she was told. Sometimes such is the case, on the other hand, that there is cause for  concern,  yet nothing is done to follow through, either because staff too overworked, or, in some cases, they're under-motivated to do anything about cases when something they're told should be of concern to them.  Regardless that nothing can come of my case because of either statutes of limitations have been reached or because I'm not a willing complainant, somewhere floating in the ether is a report of suspected abuse with my father's name on it. While nothing will ever come of it, and most likely it's been lost or thrown away anyway, it still bothers me, All my dad was doing was being a good father and talking to me, an emotionally unstable pre-adolescent,  before leaving me in the care of non-relatives for over a week before I would again see another relative.

Furthermore, on some nights when my dad was in the area, he slept in an extra  bed in my room. I had my own room with an extra bed so that out-of-town relatives could stay overnight in my room with me on occasion. The suspecting nurse, who, paranoid as I believe she was, was probably acting out of concern, must have had  a field day with my father sleeping in my actual room, even if we weren't in bed together. After all, the beds were separated by a few mere feet.

As recently as a few months ago, I've crawled into my parents' bed with them after an especially scary nightmare. Usually, instead of my coming into their bed, one of my parents  comes into my room and sleeps in my recliner for the remainder of the night following an especially vivid nightmare or night terror. I have a really comfortable fold-up roll-away bed with a Westin mattress that doesn't fold but stays in the closet and is lifted on to the top of the roll-way bed. My friends use it when they sleep over, but my parents almost always just stay in the recliner.  If I'm having a horrible time getting back to sleep, they sing to me or rub my head and shoulders.  According to some, this may be the stuff of which legitimate CPS referrals are made, but I find it all very silly and a  waste of precious resources.

My dad occasionally hugs me, or occasionally even roughhouses with me, and he does kiss me once in awhile, though only on the forehead. If that's foreplay or  a make-out session in the eyes of some, so be it. Dirty minds find dirty things on which to dwell.

I know that lines are being crossed on a regular basis in parent-child relationships, and it makes me sick for the poor child. I'm lucky enough not to have ever been involved in any such thing, though. Whether in terms of discipline, medical practice, or other physical aspects of parenting, my parents have been above reproach, despite what a particular nurse imagined or thought she might have seen. My father, as are several of my uncles, is a doctor. Doctors occasionally need to examine their own children or nieces and nephews. In my own case, any exam that is particularly invasive is done by a non-relative  or by my Uncle Steve, who is my actual physician, always with my mom or another female relative sitting beside me for moral support. In terms of my having to lift my shirt so that someone can listen to my heart or lungs, or lower my pants to receive an injection, we get it over with as quickly as possible, with the doctor relative often reminding me that he is getting no more pleasure from the procedure than I am. There's no reason to make a bigger deal of it than needs to be made.

Pat Boone's parenting practices have crossed lines that were better left uncrossed, in my opinion, although perhaps with the best of intentions.  The results seem basically to have been positive, although,as I mentioned yesterday, I believe Lindy's quest for freedom normally granted to a young adult her age may have led to an earlier marriage that she might have  otherwise sought.  The other girls may have married early for similar reasons, though I don't know. Cherry was just more than a year older than Lindy when she married. I have no idea how old  Laury was when she was married, and I knew Debby's age at marriage at one point, but I've since forgotten. Debby Boone is  bit banal in my opinion, and details concerning her life tend not to remain in my mind for long. As far as I know , the three Boone sisters other than Debby are still remarried to their original spouses.

Physical contact, for whatever reason, between a father and daughter, or even to an extent between a same-sex parent, once the daughter begins to mature physically, is a delicate matter and deserves to be treated as such.  Parents who ignore boundaries create problems that offer no easy fixes.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: update of family dyfunctionality, featuring my own...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: update of family dyfunctionality, featuring my own...: Images niece's blog. long but worth the read

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: update of family dyfunctionality, featuring my own...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: update of family dyfunctionality, featuring my own...: Images niece's blog. long but worth the read

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: update of family dyfunctionality, featuring my own...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: update of family dyfunctionality, featuring my own...: Images amended to add a story that should have been there in the first place, and two cphotos are included in this edition

update of family dysfunctionality, featuring my own family in various generations and the Pat Boone family

Images -- even this slightly creepy one -- can be deceiving.

Please try to be objective. Can't you see at lest a  vague resemblance beteeen the man in this photo and an ill-humored and monochromatic santa Claus?

My online friend Knotty and I share an obsession with the Boone family, as in  the family of Pat Boone. Knotty had begun to read Lindy Boone Michaelis' book about her son's near fatal injury and the subsequent dealings with traumatic brain injury with which the entire family had to deal. I'm just halfway through the book, so as far as the injuries sustained by Ryan Corbin, Lindy's son, I've read only to the point to where he's been transferred to two separate facilities.

Much of what I've read up to this point has been about life in the Boone family in general. I've read most of the books written by Pat, Shirley, and daughters Debby and Cherry,  because my aunt, who is also my Godmother, has or had some sort of obsession with the family, in much the same way my mother was but no longer seems to be obsessed with the Kennedys. Whenever I got tired of looking at my aunt's dairy cows, I used to wander over to her Boone library and begin reading out of sheer boredom. What I read was nothing  short of mind-boggling to me.

I recognize, first of all, that a family with two parents and just two children, such s the one in which I grew up,  can run smoothly without the necessity for as many rules as would be needed for a family with four children. The larger the number of offspring, in general the greater  the number of rules and level of compliance most likely needed in effect for an orderly family. And the Boones most definitely were an orderly family.

Both my parents grew up in large families. My mother's family differed from the  norm for large families in that there was neither excessive order nor chaos.In my mother's family, in which there were seven children who survived infancy, rules were few and loosely enforced as much as could be the case in a military family. I spite of the carefree attitude my maternal grandparents (especially my grandmother, as my grandfather often was not physically present, though he wasn't a real stickler when it came to maintaining discipline, either) somewhat lucked out in the draw because my own mother was the worst of the lot, and her modus operandi was neither throwing screaming fits nor creating scenes in public places, and certainly not in front of my father's superior officers. Despite the lack of heavy organization, the house wasn't overly chaotic. Dishes and laundry got done an put away. floors were mopped and vacuumed. Kids were in bed before midnight on school nights. All three males attended the U.S. Air Force Academy, and all four girls have doctoral degrees in at least one field. Contrast that with the family of Robert f. Kennedy, who had ten children when he was alive. (Number eleven was born about six months after he died.) Especially when RFK himself was not present, any given thing might happen at any time.  Dogs roamed the house and did their business where it was convenient. RFK, Jr., operated small-scale zoo in the basement, from which animals sometimes escaped. A coatamundi attacked Ethel on one occasion.  Rather than set lunch menus being prepared, cooks who worked there were expected to act as short-order cooks and prepare whatever each child requested. Sometimes the children changed their minds about what they wanted to eat after the cook had started to prepare one thing, which was allowed.  My mother's childhood home, by comparison, was practically a cloistered monastery. (In fairness to RFK's children, most or all of those still alive and at least one who isn't completed a reasonable amount of education, although at least one employee of the late Senator Edward Kennedy wrote this happened with Ted's office staff completing a considerable amount of research and actually writing papers for some of them. Just because it was alleged by a former employee, thought, doesn't automatically make it the Gospel truth.)

On the other hand, my father's house was the epitome of order.  My grandmother had mental issues which consisted of but were not limited to seasonal affective disorder and severe post-partum depression compounded by the loss of one of her infant twins to SIDS (though I don't think her depression reached the level of psychosis; it was dperession compounded by grief). I believe the regimen for her mental health included moving away from Massachusetts to sunny Florida, and, I think, included pharmaceutical intervention as well, though no one talks about it for the most part. I think she continues to take some sort of mood-leveling medication, as she very vaguely alluded to it during my recent lunch with her. Anyway, once she became settled in Florida,  since she learned to cope with the loss of her infant son as much as one ever learns to cope with the loss of a child, and , presumably, once her medication dosages were perfected and began to take effect, she probably would have been happier in a more loosely run household, as she wasn't an overly regimented person, but my Grandfather was having none of it.

The children were expected to go down the street to the park to play if they wanted to play noisily when my father was home. They could throw a football or baseball back and forth on the  property as long as they didn't talk loudly while they were doing it, or, God forbid, hit any part of the house.  At breakfasts and dinners, as well as at Saturday lunches, all children were expected to be seated silently at the table awaiting my grandfather's appearance. He might leave them sitting in silence up to fifteen minutes. My father soon found a home away from home at his friend Jerry's house. (Jerry is now known to me as Uncle Jerry). Jerry himself and his parents were Cuban immigrants  (Jerry was under two at the time they fled Castro's regime) who were middle-class at best. Jerry's mother was not known among neighborhood children, or even her own offspring, to be warm and tender, but she had a soft spot for my dad, and there was an extra place for him at the table and an extra roll-out bed anytime he wanted to be there. My dad and Jerry both took up the sport of tennis, and trained at the Holiday Park under Jimmy Evert, father of the famous Chris. Jimmy Evert gave group lessons for very modest fees. That, too, kept my dad out of his house as much as possible. 

When my grandfather was home, no toy was to be on the floor in living areas, no vocal noise was to be made in the house barely above a whisper unless it was he or my mother who was making the noise or, unless it was in direct response to a question he asked. The children took piano lessons, and all practicing had to be done when he was absent from the home. He would be angry if a child even finished the final notes of a scale or song as he was just arriving, and he heard it from the garage. His major method of dealing with disobedience or non-compliance in any form was to slap the offender's face hard.

My dad said they had no direct evidence that he ever struck my grandmother, but that she always seemed to fear him. One time when I was about two years old  (I've been told; I don't remember) the two were engaged in a verbal sparring match of sorts, which was unusual as far as any of the children knew. My dad and my Uncle Steve, who was 21 and had just returned from his mission, walked in on the argument. Their father's face was growing red, and he was approaching my grandmother. My father and my uncle stepped between them. "If you touch my mother, we'll beat the hell out of you! " my dad told his own father.

This spun my grandfather into a whole new rage. "How dare you speak that way to me in my own home!"  he said. He reached up, presumably to slap my father, who caught his wrist. 

""You can't do that anymore, " my father said to his  father.

My grandmother was trying to placate everyone. "Boys," (my father was 32 years old at the time), she said, "I don't think your father was really going to hurt me."

"We're not taking any chances," said my Uncle Steve, who, at 6' 3", towered over my 5'11" grandfather. 

"You go into your library,"  my dad instructed his own father, "and sit there until you're sure  have yourself under control. Do not come out until you are no longer angry and are no longer a danger to anyone in this house. If you do, we will take you back in there. If you come out again, we will call the police."

My grandfather slept that night in his library, which had an attached bathroom. The next day he was back to his usual contrary and unpleasant self, but he at least wasn't making any threatening moves toward my grandmother or anyone else. My grandmother is now stronger and in much better physical condition than my grandfather. He wouldn't dare touch in a rough way or even threaten her.

My grandfather has only slapped anyone once since that incident. Of course Iwas the lucky recipient. It was during  "Family Home Evening," a time on Monday nights in which Mormons typically spend quality time as a family and teach their children the precepts of the gospel in their homes on  Monday nights. It was in the interval between Christmas and New Year's, and the extended family had gathered at my grandparents' hotel-sized cabin in the Wasatch hills. My parents were not there because one of my father's favorite former BYU professors had recently died, and they were attending a viewing that was being held in Provo, roughly an hour away. My Uncle Steve, who also would have risen to my defense at any time a situation called for it, was spending the post-Christmas holiday time with the family of his future wife in North Dakota. My parents had hired my Aunt Christelle, who was eighteen at the time, to babysit Matthew and me, both of whom had just turned three years old, in their absence.
During part of the Family Home Evening lesson, my grandfather held up a large picture of the former LDS president and Joseph Smith's successor Brigham Young. He asked the children who this man was. Quick on the draw as usual,  (I had learned from mealtimes at my grandparents' home that children were not permitted to speak unless they raised their hands and were called upon) I raised my hand and my grandfather called on me.  "He looks kind of like Santa Claus," I expressed, "except  his suit isn't red and he looks  mean." The other children, mostly older and taught from infancy to identify the Prophet and President Brigham Young, howled with laughter at my miscue. My grandfather, however, was not nearly so amused. He stepped from his place at the front of the room to where I was seated on a sofa and slapped me hard so across the left side of my face that my head sort of snapped. In retrospect, he could've broken my neck with just  bit more force. The discrepancy in size between his hand and my face and the force applied  immediately turned the entire left side of my face scarlet from  my hairline down to the very bottom of my jaw.

My three-year-old twin brother rose from his place on the sofa and rushed my grandfather to exact some sort of revenge on the "Nobody Hurts Baby Lexus" defense, but he was caught quickly for his own protection by my Uncle Michael and handed off to my Aunt Cristelle. Then my Uncle Michael approached my grandfather and slapped him hard across his own face. "Hurts, doesn't it?" my uncle said to his father in a much calmer voice than most men could've managed under similar circumstances, as his father carefully touched his own face with his hand. "Maybe you should think really hard about not doing that to anymore of the children."

Despite that the lesson had barely begun, the other aunts quickly gathered the children around the cabin's oversized rectangular table to serve squares of gingerbread that had been pre-prepared for the night's Family Home Evening refreshments.

In all the shock of the moment, it never occurred to my grandfather to question the right of his son to strike him. Uncle Michael had taken a major risk. At just over 6'0" and maybe 160 pounds, he was taller(grandfather by that time had lost a few inches to gravity and/or osteoporosis) but lighter than my grandfather. Because he had youth and quickness on his side, he probably would have prevailed had the incident turned into an all-out fist-fight, but as the smallest of the sons, he had no guarantee; he was acting mostly on adrenaline.

"But she blasphemed the Prophet Brigham Young!" my grandfather protested.

"She did no such thing," my Uncle Michael contradicted his father. "She's three years old. She's  not an LDS child. She had no idea it was a picture of Brigham Young. She probably did think it was Santa Claus, and he does have a mean expression on his face. And don't forget what Jesus had to say about little children. 'Suffer the little children, and forbid them not,  to come unto me, for such is the kingdom of heaven.'   . . . And you're extremely lucky I was here to handle it and not John or Steve. You wouldn't have gotten off with a mere slap. You'd be picking yourself up off the floor after a nasty right hook."  Uncle Michael, fresh off his mission, was a true-believing Mormon at the time and continues to be. He gives Mormons everywhere a good name, as does his lovely wife Joanne and their two normal but sweet children.

"HE wasn't including her," my grandfather muttered, motioning with his head in my direction. "She blasphemed the Prophet Brigham Young!"

My grandmother hurried in with a ziplock bag full of ice cubes wrapped in a washcloth for my face. She tried to take me from my Uncle Michael's arms, but I clung to him in a vice-like grip. Instead, she held the ice pack against my face with her right hand, patted my back with her left hand, and said,
"There, there. We won't let that mean old man ever hurt you again." She gave my grandfather a look that would have sent him immediately six feet under if looks could have accomplished homicide, justifiable or otherwise. (Wouldn't THAT be a great case for Nancy Grace and the other pundits to try in the media?)

My parents learned later that my grandfather spent nearly two months sleeping on the sofa of of the library of his extensive collection of LDS books. "While you're in there," my Aunt Cristelle said my grandmother told him, "perhaps  you should pick up a few of those books and read what the prophets say about  how the Savior felt about babies and how they should be treated. And maybe while you're at it, " she continued  "you should consult a few of your MD friends [many LDS mucky-mucks are MDs] about the potential effects of slapping children's faces hard when they don't even weight twenty-five pounds." (I was actually probably about 22 pounds at that point. I had gone for my two-year-old doctor appointment just weeks earlier and had weight in at just over twenty-one at that time. I had been born prematurely and had not yet caught up to my chronological peers in size.) "You could have seriously injured her."

"John's not going to he very happy about this when he hears about it and sees the results,"  my uncle warned my grandfather.

"Who has to tell him?" my grandfather asked.

"I think the marks on her face will speak for themselves," my uncle answered. "Even if none of us said a word, John or Erin would ask where the bruises came from, and one of the twins would tell." My Uncle Michael paused. "And I'm not waiting for them to tell."

"Neither am I, " Aunt Cristelle sobbed. "I'm the babysitter. I'm responsible for those two children while their parents aren't here." My uncle and grandmother assured her that there was nothing she could have done to prevent what had happened, but still she had tears running down her cheeks.

My grandfather merely muttered under his breath, according to my Aunt Cristelle, but it was the last time anyone in the family was struck by my grandfather. (I was kicked in the shin many years later. I no longer get within striking or kicking distance of him.)

"Yes, he was including Alexis," my Uncle Michael disagreed with him. "And you're just lucky I was here to handle it and not John or Steve. You wouldn't have gotten of with a slap. You'd be picking yourself up off the floor after a nasty right hook."

The truth of the matter is that my father had wanted to settle the score with his father in a physical manner, or at the very leas least to call the sheriff's office when my parents  returned and learned of the incident, but my mother used all the persuasive powers within her to convince that my Uncle Michael had handled the situation adequately. Nonetheless, my father didn't let his father off without a grave warning. "If you ever harm as much as a hair on either of my children's heads," my father said through clenched teeth to my grandfather,  "you'll be dealing either with me  -and I won't be slapping -- or with child abuse charges. I don't know which, because I don't know how great my level of self-control will be at the time. But I'm warning you to keep your hands off  my children." And my grandfather did keep his hands off us -- literally -- as he neither hit us nor hugged nor shook hands with us, which was fine with both Matthew and me. He did kick me in the shin  last summer, but my father, while far from forgiving, didn't want to be accused of elder abuse for physically retaliating, and, since I was no longer a minor, the charge (I was given the option of pressing charges) would have been one of assault  and not of child abuse. My dad did wonder at the time of the incident if, had he or I pressed charges, it would have made the local newspapers or if the church would have exerted its influence to suppress the story.

Compared to my grandfather, Pat Boone was as gentle as a lamb with his daughters. Still, I wonder exactly where the Boones fit on this spectrum of physical violence in families.. Both Pat and Shirley have admitted to a time in their marriage when they were very unhappy together. Shirley was pregnant, and she prayed that God would take the baby either because he couldn't deal with being pregnant, or didn't want another one of Pat's babies, or whatever.  The baby was lost in Shirley's fifth month of pregnancy. Pat didn't directly acknowledge it, but my impression from what he said  in A New Song was that  he may have been alluding to marital unfaithfulness. Any admission, if there was one, was very indirect, though. The couple was clearly unhappy in their marriage at the time. In one book, (again, I think it was A New Song) Pat recounted how Shirley recoiled at him and became physically ill if he touched her.

Interestingly, Lindy is the first of the three girls who have written books who alluded to her parents' marriage as being unhappy at one time.  Cherry and Debby, as far as I recall, both glossed over it or perhaps they were in their own worlds to the extent that they were not even aware there were problems with their parents' marriage. Cherry was dealing with perfectionism, with the demands placed on an oldest child by parents with high exceptionally high expectations, and with the resulting eating disorders. Debby was dealing with being the most rebellious and devious child in a family that had little tolerance for rebellion or deviation. Additionally, she and Pat, through her teen years, seemed to have quite the personality conflict. Laury was kind of an addendum to it all. She was a bit of a troublemaker ( she once carved her name into the family's grand piano; I may not be any genius, but even I knew better than to ever do that. If anything, I would have carved my brother's name and imitated his writing style in doing it). Laury, though, unlike Debby, took Pat's  discipline somewhat submissively and went along with her parents' plans. Debby seemed unafraid to take  Pat on  in regard to any particular  issue that came up.

My paternal grandfather slapped a lot of of faces. My dad thinks it was probably at least one a day just to get it out of his system and to be able to get on with his daily routine. As far as we know, Pat didn't slap his daughters' faces, but he more than made up for it by slapping their butts on a regular basis.  One of the girls referred to spankings as part of their "daily diet."  Lindy, in what I've read so far, spoke of her parents as being strict and mentioned being scolded, but didn't mention being spanked. I don't know if she has a poor memory, or chooses not to air that part of her family's oiled laundry, or if she was disciplined less because she was a better-behaved child and was whacked less than the others, or maybe I just haven't gotten far enough into the book. Maybe Pat will still spank someone before the book is over.

At least one of Boone corporal punishment incidents occurred after the recipient was eighteen, which I find appalling. Debby left a motel room to get ice or a soda or something, and, along the way, met up with a member of their touring crew. She paused to converse with him, and did not return to the hotel room promptly enough for her father's liking.  If I had a daughter  and she left a motel room and was gone for longer than I thought she should be gone, my first act would probably be to leave the hotel room to look for her near the place she said she was going to ensure that she was safe. Pat Boone, on the other hand, patiently waited for her in the hotel room, then attempted to slap her butt when she returned. In the process, he elbowed her in the forehead and gave her a bruise. Great parenting, Pat.

In another incident (age of victim unknown)Cherry had possession of a family car to run and errand and, on the way back, stopped to visit another celebrity family who had a son in whom she was somewhat interested. (It was probably Wayne Osmond.) Lindy was with her. The detour was in no way Lindy's idea or Lindy's fault. Exactly how much longer the girls were gone than they should have been was not specified, but it was long enough to make Pat go all Pat Boone on both the girls even though Cherry begged Pat to leave Lindy out of the butt-slapping session since it was not in any way her fault. In this particular incident, Pat left noticeable bruises on Cherry that lasted for many days because, in her anorexic state, she lacked sufficient subcutaneous tissues to absorb the blows. Another great job of parenting, Pat.

I will not say that my parents have never whacked my brother or me. My mother has whacked me on exactly two occasions. As far as I know, she's never whacked my brother. My father has whacked us more, but I'm sure it would be fewer than a total of ten times that he's whacked both of us combined in our entire lives. We were never struck with anything but an open hand. We were always smacked over whatever clothing we were wearing t the time. We were never struck with objects, unlike the Boone girls,who according to at least one of them, were hit with whatever was handy. No one has ever slapped either of our faces except for the one time when my grandfather got to me before my uncle could intervene.

In Lindy's book, Pat is quoted as saying, when Lindy was nineteen, "My daughters can go to any college they want as long as they're home in time for dinner." Pat and Shirley were married at the age of nineteen.  Perhaps if Lindy's only route to  freedom hadn't been marriage, she wouldn't have married when she was twenty, which was the age at which Pat and Shirley allowed Lindy to be be married. She might have experienced real life as a single adult, and her first marriage might have lasted. (Then again, roughly 50% of marriages don't last, so who really knows, but Pat and Shirley did nothing to help Lindy's chances of marital success in that regard.) Additionally, it was most hypocritical of Pat and Shirley not even to allow their daughters to go away to college at an age when they were already married. Even if their motivation had been to prevent their daughter from avoiding mistakes they had made, it still reeked of hypocrisy.

I live in a family where the only two children are legal adults. I live at home most of the time because it works out best for me to do so. If I wanted to move out tomorrow, my parents might try to talk me out of it, but if they were unsuccessful, they'd help me pack my belongings and help me to move them to my new home.  We had rules that my parents thought were absolutely necessary, such as no gymnastics on the roof once I had been caught doing that, and no Internet when an FBI investigation revealed I had been in contact with an Internet predator. (I was twelve. For the record, I never gave out full my name, school, or address.) Still, my parents didn't lie awake at night dreaming up rules and consequences for breaking them.

This year, when thanksgiving rolls around, I'll try to remember to be thankful for not being born as one of Pat Boone's daughters. just think abut it. What if that fifth baby Shirley was pregnant had survived and turned out to be  I?  I could have been even more screwed up than I already am.

.

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medi...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medi...: PeptoBismol + IV hydration                                                                                               ...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medi...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medi...: PeptoBismol + IV hydration                                                                                               ...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medi...

The Many Banes of My Existence by Alexis: overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medi...: PeptoBismol + IV hydration                                                                                               ...

overly embellished anthem; miracles of modern medicine

PeptoBismol

+ IV hydration

                                                                                                         

+narcotics = Alexis feeling better

I'm expressing an opinion that may be mine alone, but that hasn't shut me up in the past, so I'll speak my mind, true to form. "The Star-Spangled Banner" has a specific and recognized melody, as adapted by Francis Scott Key from "To Anacreon in Heaven," which was something of an English drinking song. The melody may not be the most beautiful one in the world; it may not even be the most beautiful national anthem in the world. It is, however, what it is.

With due respect to Candice Glover for her obvious talent, vocal gymnastics have yet, in my opinion, to improve anyone's overall performance  of our national anthem. Simply because one possesses the physical ability to manipulate one's voice at will does not mean one should do so at every available opportunity. Just because one can embellish with ease doesn't mean one should, especially when performing the national anthem.  Trills, turns, mordents, and other forms of ornamentation have their places, but not for the most part, in my opinion, in our national anthem.  I've finally given in on the practice of raising the high note on free, as in "and the la-and of the free-ee" an interval of a perfect fourth, after which the audience applauds even if the key in which the song is being sung is so low that there is nothing whatsoever impressive in the height of the note that has been reached.  It seems that all singers other than pure classicists will use this deviation in performing the song, and I've gotten over it.  In terms of the other embellishments, however, I have not gotten over them and still have hope that it eventually will become common for  singers to return to singing the song in the standard manner in which it was originally adapted.

I will say that, to Ms. Glover's credit, she did sing the song in the original time signature of 3/4. It has become popular to extend the song to the time signature of 4/4, making an already long song 25% longer. I commend Ms. Glover for resisting this popular trend.

My point, if I can find one in my current state of  drug-induced haze, is that Candice Glover has a lovely voice that could have been showcased quite nicely by singing the national anthem as originally adapted, and she did herself and her audience no favors with what I considered to be over-embellishment of an already sufficiently elaborate melody.

Today I have been suffering from digestive upset. Ordinarily a relative would have taken care of this, but since Dr. Kent and I have become BFFs, he stopped by our home on his way back to the hospital after going home for lunch. He goes home for lunch almost every day because he actually likes his wife and children, which is a trait I find admirable. The youngest three of his children are apparently quite excited to see him at lunch each day, and kneel or stand at their living room window watching for the approach of his car. I've seen it myself, and it's terribly  sweet.

Anyway, he pronounced my gastric distress to be"very uncomfortable but not a huge disaster in medical terms" and nothing that couldn't be cured by PeptoBismol, which we have on hand, narcotics, which he provided, and IV hydration, which he also brought. He hooked me up with an IV of Ringer's Solution, into which he injected a shot of Dilaudid.  (He took blood "just in case," but he took it from the iV so I wouldn't need an extra needle poke.) He left an extra bag of Ringer's solution, which my mom is capable of changing, and an extra shot of Dilaudid, which she can inject. He even taught my brother how to change the IV bottle. He might have liked to teach my brother how to insert an IV using me as a crash test dummy, but I was having none of it. Experienced doctors and nurses have trouble finding my little veins with their IV needles, and often have to resort to using literal baby IVs in order to successfully connect with my veins.. At my hospital, they have what's known as a four-poke rule. If a particular health practitioner cannot successfully insert an IV in four tries, another person takes over. One one occasion I went through three RNs, and the last one was on his fourth and final try when he got it right.  Adding to the problem is that if  I'm either  sick enough to need an IV or have had to abstain from eating or drinking anything for X amount of hours prior to scheduled surgery, my veins are in a state if dehydration, which complicates IV insertion all the more.  In any event, my brother was not going to learn the finer points of inserting an IV at my expense. Dr. Kent's a pro (he has six kids), and he brought an infant IV needle with him, so he got it on the first try.

Dr. Kent told my mom to disconnect my IV when the second bag was empty.  I made him say my brother couldn't be the one to disconnect it.  Red, as in blood-red, does not match the color scheme of my room, and God only knows what kind of a mess could be made if Matthew were to be the one to disconnect my IV. Dr. Kent told my mom to give me Ondansetron (an anti-emetic that dissolves in your mouth), then  Vicodin every four hours after that. I did not object. Vicodin and other opiates can be constipating, but at the moment, and at most times in general for me, that is not a bad thing. I have an active and fast-moving gastric system. I had Ondansetron/ Vicodin  at 5:00, and so will have them again at 9:00. if I'm in enough pain that it interferes with sleep, my dad will shoot me up with Dilaudid at 1:00a.m. It's a pain-killer but not one that induces sleep in me.

I won't take a benzo or sleep-inducing medication on the Confucius principle, the one that states, "He is a fool who takes a laxative and a sleeping pill on the same night." I didn't take a laxative, but the same principle applies.

Good night to all, and remember not to take any laxatives if you're planning on taking sleeping pills as well.

#

Future doctors?

This is not a photo of my brother and me. I just liked it.

My sleep schedule, which is erratic even times of perfect health, has not yet returned to normal even for me. I've been awake since just before 3:00 a.m. PDT. My brother must be experiencing his own sleep issues, as he saw the dim light of the TV  (which was on "mute" so the sound could not have awakened him) under my door and came in to chat. Matthew has made the decision to forego his final year of athletic eligibility and to graduate in three years, as I will do. Incidentally, his decision will be kept quiet, as he would be given  minimal playing time in the upcoming season if the coaching staff knew of his plan not to return for year number four. Some would consider his choice to withhold  this rather significant bit of information to be unethical, but in the world of college athletics, where even in the most upstanding of  programs, athletes are essentially treated as slabs of beef, it's a dog-eat-dog world, and in this particular case, Matthew happens to be the dog who will not go hungry.

We discussed medical school and how to handle the application process in relation to one another.
We considered tossing a coin, and whichever of us won would name our first choice medical school, and the other would not apply there. Then the other would name our first choice, or our second choice if the other's first choice was the same, and the other one would not apply there.

We're concerned, and I think our concern is legitimate, that we're not both going to be admitted to the same school. It could happen, but the odds are against it. We're assuming that at our top choice schools, an element of nepotism may be involved, and a given school is not likely to grant nepotistic favor to members of the same family in the same year. The assumption may be wrong. It may be that neither of us even needs  nepotistic favor, or it may be that our familial clout is not is not as great as we think it is, and that neither of us will be favored because of Dad's eminence.

Furthermore, even without nepotism, I suspect being twins will not work in our favor in terms of gaining admittance to the same school.  All the way down to kindergarten, schools generally  don't put siblings, who would most often be twins,  in the same class if there is another option. While in med school we wouldn't necessarily have to be in the same actual sections of courses, and even if we were, perhaps the school would consider it our problem and not theirs,  I just can't see it  as being a positive factor from their point of view. It would become more of an issue when we reach year #3, when the bulk of time is spent in the hospital and not in the classroom. Having siblings in groups and rotations,  and perhaps twins more than regular siblings, could impact group dynamics. Attempting to work around it could be a hassle that many med schools would just as soon avoid.

In the end, we came to a fairly easy solution. We're initially sharing with each other neither our MCAT scores nor the schools to which we will apply, much less which are our top choices. The lack of sharing of MCAT scores is to the benefit of both of us. Unless something wildly unusual happens, I should easily outscore Matthew, which he knows perfectly well, but seeing it in black and white can only make him feel bad. Knowing I've outscored him, if I'm then not admitted to a school of my choice and he is, I will take it personally. Therefore, what good can possibly come of sharing our respective scores? Once all is said and done, if both of us are happy about where we end up, we'll tell each other whatever we feel like sharing. If one of us clearly ends up in a better place, it would probably be just as well not to know all the gory details.

Matthew will take an MCAT prep course at his school, and I'll take one at mine.  On weekends when we're both home we'll study together and help each other, and even depend on the many doctors in the family, Dad included, in studying. We'll also enlist help from mom, who obviously isn't an MD, but as someone with a doctorate in educational psychology, has considerable expertise in test-taking skills. We know all the basics, as we prepped before taking the SAT, but my mom has high-level sources. She's personally acquainted with many of the people who wrote the MCAT prep books and designed the courses, and who may have updated information that's not yet been published or included in the classes.

Is it fair to our competitors that our mother knows the right people who can provide us with beneficial information? Not really, but still it would be foolish  not to utilize any possible advantage to which we may have access.  It wasn't fair that I was born at roughly 30 weeks of gestation. It wasn't fair that I was attacked in a restroom or that the babysitter we had when I was in first grade didn't take care of me and practically allowed me to starve to death. It wasn't fair that I was left to fend for myself in a smoke-filled house while in a very weakened state of health. Matthew, too, has his own baggage, though it sometimes doesn't seem that way to me, and we're both as Caucasian as snow,  which certainly will not work to our advantage in a system that, affirmative action being in effect or not, thrives on diversity. Life isn't fair. So if my brother and I have the possibility of  advantages in this inherently arbitrary at best and, more realistically, outrightly unfair process, we will  make the most of those advantages. I will note, however, that any nepotistic advantages will occur only as a result of recognition of a not-terribly-common surname and any association or familiarity with it that members of acceptance panels may have. My father will not be making calls, sending emails, or writing letters on behalf of either of us, nor will his name be mentioned in any part of the many applications either of us completes and submits.  We have our limits in terms of the depths to which we will sink to achieve our goals.

I am highly satisfied with the agreement we have essentially chiseled out of thin air, and I feel much better about the arduous process we're both facing. It's good to know where we stand in terms of one another, and I like the idea of being mutually supportive. Still, however we look at it, we are competitors in a highly competitive system, and it's in both of our best interests to openly acknowledge it without being too cut-throat about it. 

Billy Joel

This is the view from my bed, which is a large framed prtrait of Billy Joel.  Other walls feature equally large framed portraits of  Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven.

I'm quite fond of the music of Billy Joel. I can't say what's my favorite Billy Joel song, as it changes randomly.  "Miami 2017" is totally full of the awesome, but so are "She's Always a Woman,"
 "Summer at Highland Falls," [one of my favorite teen angst themes],  "Allentown,"  "Only the Good Die Young,"  "We didn't Start the Fire," "Piano Man," and "Captain Jack."  Speaking of "Captain jack," how can one not love a song that works into the lyrics both  the terms "pick your nose" and "masturbate"?

I wasn't present for the event, but my  Uncle Scott  proposed to my Aunt Jillian at the conclusion of his senior recital. He had arranged permission from the professor who was his advisor to play and sing "And Do It Goes" as an encore at his recital in some mid-sized concert hall at BYU.  One would not ordinarily play something by Billy Joel other than, perhaps under rare circumstances, on of his forays into the classical realm. Certainly one wouldn't play something that one sang along to at a senior piano recital, but it was all cleared through his advisor, so I suppose it was kosher. He played and sang the song, which is really a bit melancholy to be singing when you're in the process of proposing to the person you hope to marry. Immediately following the conclusion to the song, he quickly removed from insode the piano a single pink rose and a small box containing a wedding ring. He stepped down from the stage and went to where she was seated )one of her friend knew and made sure she had a front-row seat), knelt, and asked for her hand in marriage. she said yes, and the rest is history.

Public proposals are a risky thing. What if she had said no? It would have put something of damper on the post-recital reception. (They had spoken of marriage before, though, so the proposal wasn't totally out of the blue.) Ahmad Rashad proposed to Phylicia Rashad (whom my mom has accompanied on the piano for some charity function once and says is a most gracious and kind person) during an NFL Thanksgiving pregame show. She accepted, and they remained married for something like fifteen years, which is roughly two-and-a-half lifetimes for a show business marriage. Larry King soon followed suit and proposed on live television to someone who [very wisely, in my opinion] said no. Soon enough later, he persuaded one of the Engemanns, (Shawn, formerly Shawnae, I think) a member of a large musical family some of whom to worked with the Osmonds, to marry him in a ceremony by his hospital bed before he underwent some sort of cardiac procedure. The former Ms. Engemann was born in the neighborhood of 1959, which would place her in her early fifties now, while King is pushing 80. A few years ago both of them filed divorce papers, but I believe they've since reconciled.  Just from looking at Mr. King, it's hard to imagine that green stuff with presidents' and other prominent historical figures' faces didn't somehow play a part both in Ms. Engemann's decision to marry him and perhaps later in her decision to tear up the divorce papers, but that is nothing more than speculation on my part, as I've never met either of them and would be perfectly happy if such remained the status quo. It was, I believe, the eighth marriage for Larry King. I've digressed considerably, but my original point was that public marriage proposals can be a risky matter. Sometimes they work out, and sometimes the recipient of the request has other plans for his or her future, such as was the case of Larry King and the one that got away.

I'll post here a video of the Billy Joel sang to Aunt Jillian, immediately before proposing. Billy Joel is a great singer and pianist, but my Uncle Scott is far too talented to be called an amateur. I'm sure his rendition was respectable at the very least.

I have great respect for musical artists who compose most of their own work. Billy Joel composes his own music and lyrics.  Considering he was originally a high school dropout (he didn't graduate with his classmates; he quit school to work to help his single mother out financially; many years later he wrote an essay or two for his high school and was awarded his official diploma),  his lyrics show rare depth and obvious literacy.  Some high school lost a great student and probably didn't even realize it at the time.  It's unfortunate that arrangements couldn't have been made to allow him to continue his studies and to work as well so he could have enjoyed the small but not wholly insignificant milestone of going through the graduation ceremony with his peers.

Billy Joel has been married three times. Both he and wife number three announced a split. I assume they divorced but I don't really know. His second marriage was to supermodel Christie Brinkley, and produced his only offspring, Alexa Ray Joel.  The marriage lasted about nine years, but the two remain on very friendly terms. Alexa is a cute enough young woman, but to me it seems unfortunate that a girl can have a mother as beautiful as Christie Brinkley but can end up looking a great deal more like her father. Billy Joel's looks would be considered by most to be very average. Fortunately for Alexa Ray, in addition to his looks,  she inherited musical talent from her father. She says among he earliest memories are of sitting on her father's lap at a piano as he played and sang  nursery rhymes to her. (I'd like to offer a shout out to nursery rhymes. They're not said or sung to today's young children nearly as much as they should be. Macabre as the origins of some of them might have been, they're a part of our culture that we cannot afford to let die. Parents and teachers of young children, read, sing and recite Mother Goose rhymes to your children. They are a national treasure we  do not want to lose. Save Humpty Dumpty, Little Miss Muffet, the cow who jumped over the moon, and all the rest. PLEASE !)  Ironically, it was Alexa's mother, Christie Brinkley, who insisted that her daughter learn to play the piano, in sort of a "You're Billy Joel's kid and you have to learn to play the piano" type of interaction. It was a smart move on Ms. Brinkley's part, and I'm sure her daughter, who has a modest career as a singer/songwriter,  now appreciates her mother's insistence, though Alexa may have resisted to some degree as a youngster.

One of the songs Billy Joel wrote for Alexa, "Goodnight My Angel," is one of the twenty or so songs my own father can play well on the piano.  He plays and sings it for me on some nights when I'm having difficulty sleeping. It's a lovely lullaby with a classical tint, and the meaning is deep.

I like Elton John and his music, too. Not that all of these guys don't use backup musicians on a regular basis (and I have to appreciate the use of back-up musicians, as working as one in summers is essentially how my father put himself through medical school, which allows me to have a much more comfortable lifestyle than anyone who hasn't personally earned it really deserves), but anyone who can perform in front of a crowd of  thousands  with nothing but himself and his instrument, be it piano, guitar, or whatever, has courage beyond what most of us normal people can conceive. Elton John, on the other hand, does not compose his own lyrics, as Billy Joel does. Nevertheless, far be it from me to criticize a musician for composing only melodies and not lyrics, since I do neither. Furthermore, Elton John composed what I consider to be one of the two most beautiful melodies of the modern era of music when he wrote "Your Song." The second of the two most beautiful melodies of modern music  is, in my opinion, Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman."

When my Aunt Jillian and Uncle Scott were married in a large Catholic ceremony, she, as the bride, along with her mother, did nearly all the work that goes into throwing together a wedding. The only thing she asked of Scott was that he take care of every aspect of the music, from the ceremony to the reception, as music was his area of expertise. She did put him into contact with my mom, who played piano and organ in the ceremony and helped him with some selections, as he had been Mormon up to that point, and as Mormons emphasize temple weddings  where no music is involved.  Scott had limited knowledge as to exactly where music fits into a wedding ceremony. Jillian thought the music that was selected for the ceremony was beyond perfect, but she had a bit of an issue with the song he picked for their first dance.

He chose Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman," which, while being an ode to the woman of his dreams, does point out her very human traits. Think of it as something similar to a modern and musical version of the Shakespearean sonnet "My Lover's Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun," which was unusual in its time as, instead of putting his lover on a pedestal and extolling her for more virtues than any one human could conceivably possess, details her foibles, yet tells how much he loves her in spite of them. "She's Always a Woman" is similarly  blunt. I think the line from the song my that Aunt Jillian was most affronted by was "She'll ruin your faith with her casual lies," although there were many less-than-complimentary lines to which she could have and probably did take offense. To be honest, though, the song suited and still suits  my aunt to the extent that it could have been written specifically for her.  She's since gotten over it, and it's one of the first songs she asks her husband  to play whenever he's playing for fun or to entertain her.

'She's Got a Way" is a lovely song as well. It's off an album of songs, Songs in the Attic, that  Joel released, comprised of a series of songs that seemed to be particularly well-received in concert but never had made any dent in the Billboard charts or any similar list prior to being released on the album.  Joel once mentioned that his musical inspiration for the song came from Gordon Lightfoot. While I can't hear the musical resemblance inspiring the reference to Lightfoot, I always appreciate it when one artist gives credit or compliments to another, and in this case I appreciate it especially,  as Lightfoot is another of my musical idols, and he, too, composes nearly all of his own music -- both melodies and lyrics.

Billy Joel has come out in favor of a few political candidates, but them seemed to eschew the practice. He made the comment, "People who pay for your tickets, I don't think they want to hear who you're going to vote for and how you think they should vote."  I wish more entertainers would keep that in mind. While, as Americans, we're free to voice our views, politically or otherwise,  I find it off-putting when entertainers interject themselves into the political process.  They are free to support whomever they choose, either with financial contributions or with statements and appearances. On the other hand, I'm concerned about the Americans who are stupid enough to be influenced by the political opinions of entertainers, who have no more or less knowledge than does the average citizen concerning the political process. It doesn't bother me when they appear and sing a few songs, if they're musicians, at  political rallies, as it makes what otherwise might be a rather tedious event somewhat more enjoyable. Short of that, I wish entertainers would be less involved in political campaigning. I say this as a liberal, with political leanings that usually benefit from the political endorsements of entertainers, most of whom are liberal as am I. Still, I believe it's not a good practice, and I appreciate Billy Joel's stance in this regard.

When we're all gone, I believe that if future generations retain any good taste in music, the music of Billy Joel will survive. For the sake of those who will someday replace us on this Earth, I hope I'm right.

Some Doctors Still Make House Calls

my room in its current incarnation

Dr. Kent came by our house on his way to the hospital this morning, which was at about 6:15. He said he didn't want me to have to get up and come into his office or the hospital. I'm quite aware doctors do not do this for many patients, and that it's not because of anything special about me that affords me such care, but rather,  it's because my dad is important and because most doctors really like my mother that I receive red carpet treatment. My parents knew in advance that he was coming. I wish they had told me because I would have at least brushed my teeth and hair before he got there, as opposed to making him wait for four minutes. I will not allow anyone outside my immediate family see me in the morning before my teeth and hair have been brushed and my face has been washed.

He noticed that the stuffed panda he had given me on the day I was released from the hospital was in bed beside me. I explained to him that even though some people may consider me a little old to be sleeping with stuffed animals, I still hadn't quite gotten over having my remaining stuffed animals from childhood accidentally tossed into the dumpster when my family made our last move, and since the panda is the only stuffed animal I presently own, I reserve the right to enjoy it. He told me I should not feel bad, because he knew for a fact that his younger brother, my Uncle Scott, has to share his bed with my Aunt Jillian's terry cloth Casper the Friendly Ghost doll that was her mother's in childhood and that Jillian had coveted for her entire childhood until her brothers finally talked her mom into giving to her when she was something like 23.

He also noticed that I was wearing one of the nighties his wife had made for me. It's kind of funny because the bedding I currently have on my bed consists of a music note comforter in black and white with the comforter reversible in white with large pink polka dots. The top sheet is pink, and the fitted sheet is white with large pink polka dots, matching the underside of the comforter. The pillows match both motifs. (My musical keyboard rug is on the floor. )  The particular nightie Stephanie (his wife) had sewn for me was pink with white polka dots in the exact shade of pink  as the background of my comforter,  so they were perfect negative images of one another except that the polka dots on the nightie were not quite so huge. He asked if I always dressed to match my bedroom.  It's a really comfortable nightie, and I'll wear it a lot. It's long enough that I don't have to wear bottoms with it, although Stephanie did make short bottoms to go with it, but right now having anything fitting, even with very loose elastic, isn't comfortable against my midsection even though the actual incision is below waist level.

We talked more than we ever have before.  He apologized for his actions in  interfering with Jared's and my relationship, and said he can see now that it was clearly the wrong thing to have done, but at the time he thought he was doing the right thing. I accepted his apology. He also said that with the way Jared has been acting lately, he may have unintentionally done me a favor, and that Jared doesn't at this point in his life deserve anyone as nice, smart, or pretty as I. That part embarrassed me a bit, but I just said thanks and let it go.  He said that we're both too young for anything serious at this point in our lives, as we'll all be making decisions, hopefully about what medical schools to attend, and that at our ages, relationships should not play a part in those decisions, but that kids our age should be going out and having fun with others our own ages, and it would be nice if Jared were to get his act together sufficiently so that we could occasionally hang out or attend functions together. He expressed appreciation for my brother Matthew being such a good friend to Jared and said that even though Matthew often seems like a birdbrain to me, where Jared is concerned, he's often the only voice of reason to whom Jared will listen.

He told me that he knew I had absolutely nothing to do with the tattoo, and I should not feel in any way responsible. He also admitted, which somewhat blew me away, that Jared probably should not go on a mission. He said there have been people who have regretted it, and Jared probably would have resented, possibly for the rest if his life,  the mission putting him two years behind in his schooling. I totally agree, but Dr. Kent is so very Mormon that hearing the words come out of his mouth caught me thoroughly off-guard.  He told me that if his son had to walk around with a tattoo on his arm, there were a whole lot worse things than "ALEXIS" that he could have had engraved into his skin.

He did a great deal more talking than I did, partly because I was still half asleep and partly because I was somewhat stunned by most of what he was saying.

The physical exam was quick and mostly painless, although it can't be entirely pain-free to have someone prod a site where your entire midsection was sliced open and stitched up less than a week earlier. He said the outer wound was healing very nicely and that he hoped my scar would be minimal, not that I'm going to go around showing off that part of my body on a regular basis. He also said all indications were that inner incisions were healing just as well. I'll need an ultrasound in about four weeks to confirm that the inner workings are healing as they should be.  He asked if I had any questions or complaints.

My only complaint was that I had been denied the privilege of playing the piano -- particularly the new one -- at all, when it seemed that it would be a relatively harmless activity in which for me to engage. He said that he agreed with me that it should be accessible on a very limited basis. He said he would tell my parents that if I had an ordinarily good day with no new problems, I should be allowed to play for fifteen minutes this afternoon, and that the length of time should be increased by five minutes each day. I thanked him profusely. I asked about the violin. He said we'd have to wait a bit, but maybe in a week to ten days I could start with small intervals, as I would now be doing with the piano. Using the bow arm of the violin involves quite a bit more strain to the midsection than does playing the piano.

Dr. Kent then asked a favor.  He said he had heard the new piano had a very nice touch and resonating sound, and he asked if I would be terribly offended if he played it before I was allowed the opportunity. I told him  it was the very least I could do for him. I got out of bed and followed him -- rather slowly, but I got there -- down the hall and into the loft sitting area. I sat in a rocker-recliner, which he put into the reclining position by pulling the lever on the side, and he tossed a blanket throw over me that he had picked up from my bedroom.  He asked if  it would be a problem to play when Matthew was still asleep. My dad, who had wandered into the loft, said that Matthew would sleep all day if someone didn't wake him up at some point.  My mother also made her way into the loft and sat on the sofa.

Dr. Kent played a few scales to warm up, then went into a Chopin etude-- probably something he had learned as a kid. He and all his siblings took lessons as children. Then, because he knows I like Billy Joel (one of the four larger-than-life framed black-and-white portraits on my walls is of Billy Joel; the other three are of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven), he played Billy Joel's "She's Always a Woman." It's a beautiful song, and it always makes me think of Jillian's and Scott's wedding because they danced their first dance to it.

He pronounced it an exquisite instrument. He has a Steinway, which my mom also does downstairs in the living room, and the Steinway has always been  considered the gold standard for pianos except for those people amongst the Bosendorfer snob group. Steinways do have a clarity in their bass notes that is, so far, unmatched by anything else on the market, including Bosendorfers. Still, for overall sound, despite the lower price tag, if given a choice, which I wasn't, I think I'd still choose a Kawai over a Steinway. There's something in the tone quality that I don't hear in other pianos.

Dr.Kent left, reminding me to stay out of automobiles unless absolutely necessary, and saying that he'd be back in a couple of days to check on me again unless he heard sooner from me or from my parents that there was a problem.

It was a most unusual doctor appointment, and a most enlightening one. I think both of us are guilty of having misjudged each other.  It's nice that we seem to have ironed out our differences. Whatever does or does not happen with Jared, it's highly unlikely that his father will be a factor.

Buenas dias, senors, senoras, senoritos, y senoritas!

#  the artist still known as Alexis.