The best seat in the house

The Mud Squad

Summer is packed with outdoor festivals. Bring a blanket or a chair, pack some snacks, and enjoy the day.

Me? I like to go early and get a seat up close. I don't know why. In most amphitheaters, the sound is clear wherever you sit. Still, I like to see the entertainers. And I don't like being distracted by the goings on in the audience.

If you've been to one of these festivals, you know what I'm talking about. The balloon toss. Hula hoops. Dancing circles. Passing food and other stuffs back and forth.

To avoid the circus in the seats, I typically scurry to the front. Even at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire, where I sat in the splash zone for The Mud Squad (see them on "The Book of Face").

This weekend, I had to nix all outings after being waylaid by an aggressive and fast-moving cold. Rest. Liquids. And more rest were my marching orders. And that's all I had strength for.

I settled into the sitting room, windows open, prepared to be bored. Then I found I had the best seat in the house for live music.

The orchard next door was holding its annual Arts, Crafts & Music Festival. Over the course of two days, I heard six bands playing favorites, old and new. The sound was clear and full.

Of course I didn't see any of the musicians. But I didn't miss them. I could stretch out, relax, scratch a cat, even nap -- and still enjoy the show.

I realize how scarce an opportunity it is to have live entertainment delivered not just to your door, but through your window. But for a sickly stay-at-home weekend, it was the perfect treat.

Life as a rush job

It started this winter. The feeling that I had to hurry. I didn’t know what for, I just knew procrastination wasn’t advised.

In the back of my mind, I was cognizant of having two elderly parents living a thousand miles away who might need help.

This get-it-done-now attitude had some benefits: an earlier-than-usual vacation; home repairs attended to; and paperwork kept up to date. Projects came in and were turned around without delay.

The opportunity for a mid-summer trip to the Midwest cropped up, and on my last night there, my hurry-hurry strategy began to seem prescient. A telephone message from my dad revealed just how much things were unraveling for my folks in Florida.

Over the following days, concerns shifted from one parent to the other, as both dealt with their own medical issues. The calls were what I had dreaded but expected.

The month of August was a blur of flights back and forth, helping out as much as I could and then heading home. I conferred with my brother over medical options from wherever I happened to be – even on a layover in the Atlanta airport.

As I rushed between crises, time ran out for my father. He passed away after a tough four weeks navigating all the healthcare system had to offer.

There was more rushing around as my parents’ children, grandchildren, a great granddaughter, a niece, a grandnephew – plus spouses – gathered to honor my father’s life. After the service, we all rushed back to our own lives.

Because I had fulfilled my commitments to client projects early on, I was able to spend as much time as needed with family throughout the whole medical morass, from hospital to nursing home to hospice to final arrangements. Good thing, too, because I wasn’t good for much else, finding myself unable to string together cogent sentences.

Now, as life settles into new patterns, I’m ready to jump back into the flow of work; and new projects are appearing on my schedule. 

I don’t feel as much need to rush through deadlines, but I probably will to an extent. There’s no immediate need for me to fly back to Florida at a moment’s notice, but you never know. Time will tell. And I will be ready.

Is this paradise?

Where is your paradise, your Eden, the place where you feel most happy and content?

For some, it’s the beach. Sun, sand, and surf. What’s not to like? Unless you’re more of a woodsy person, where trees, trails, and terra firma do the trick.

In recent travels I’ve noticed claims to paradise in places that couldn’t be more different. Amsterdam is known as a paradise for high times. Cologne, Germany, has been called a knitting paradise (among other claims to favored things).

In Tulsa, Okla., Paradise is a chain of donut shops, which certainly is heavenly if you're Homer Simpson. And in Lee County, Florida, even the Sheriff’s Office buys into the hype with its tagline, “Working to Keep Paradise Safe.”

During the few days I spent in Florida, several people said to me: “Isn’t this paradise?” As I stood melting in the high heat and stifling humidity, I couldn't disagree. Actually, I couldn’t say anything; I was too busy trying to capture the few oxygen molecules reported to be in the air.

For a short stretch years ago I lived in New Hampshire, a place the locals claimed to be paradise. And it was for a few weeks in the summer, which was more like a mid-Atlantic spring. Then winter came, then winter II, then mud season. Locals were baffled when I scurried back to the Philadelphia area.

Paradise for some is a cruise vacation. For others, it’s Margaritaville. Some like camping under the stars, some won’t even “camp” in anything less than a four-star hotel.

Those seeking eternal paradise might want to visit Saginaw, Michigan. That’s where Paradise Funeral Chapel is now offering “Drive-Thru Viewing,” for those wishing to pay their final respects “in the privacy of their vehicle.”

The only thing I can figure is paradise must be like beauty – all in the eyes of the beholder.

Sing us out Coldplay:
Para-para-paradise, Para-para-paradise,
Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh.

Working (un)smarter and harder

A few years ago, a friend expressed surprise over my ownership of a fax machine. “Gee, I haven’t used one of those in years? Does anyone still fax?”

Oh, yes, as I’m finding out. Government agencies. Medical offices. Some businesses. Sign this, send your approval, submit pages of paperwork.

It’s even truer as I try to help my elderly parents navigate bureaucratic systems from a thousand miles away.

My father does have a computer, and a scanner, and a fax, but he’s currently in the hospital without access.

My mother shuns most technology and only remembers the most basic functions of her mobile phone: answer calls; place calls.

Neither will check voice mail messages, and so my brother clears hundreds from their inbox whenever he visits.

Articles on the Internet portray a much different reality. Smartphones used for shopping, banking, making payments, getting tickets for events, displaying boarding passes.

Sometimes I even believe the hype, expecting the quick extinction of cash in my wallet, newspapers on the kitchen table, magazines at bedside, and mail by my friendly postal carrier Bob.

But this week I’ve been thrown back to the pre-smartphone, un-Web days. In trying to liaise between my parents and various medical, insurance, and municipal agencies, the phone and fax have become tools of the trade.

I even resorted to USPS Priority Mail service when a receiving fax machine hiccuped.

I'll admit I love the digital life, but can we please make it additive, and not a category killer to existing technologies?

It may be hard to believe, but even in an age of smarter-than-the-average-bear devices, it sometimes takes an old-fashioned fax to get things done.