BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It was the late 60’s.

The most important things in my world were my bicycle, Shakey’s Pizza, and committing my multiplication tables to memory so the teacher wouldn’t frown at me. Television had three channels – on a good day – and it came at you from behind a wall of staticky snow on a thirteen inch, black & white Philco with tin-foil molded around the rabbit ear antennae.

Yeah. Back then they made foil out of tin instead of aluminum. Probably because it was a better conductor for the airwaves and they knew damn well that just as much of it would be used as antenna boosters as it would be for wrapping foodstuffs.

So, that was my world, living in that little house on Baltimore Avenue.  However, on a daily basis I heard about a place called “Vietnam”. It was a faraway land. The ghostly TV screen images of newscasters like Walter Cronkite told me all about it, and convinced me that it was someplace I never wanted to go.

Then, one morning, my mother was opening the drapes on our front windows. As they slid apart she gasped, then muttered, “Oh no…”

My father joined her at the window and his expression turned grim. Being a kid, I had to know what had elicited such a reaction from my parents. I ran to the window and peered out. What I saw didn’t fit with the way they were acting – at least, it didn’t to my young mind. But then, I didn’t understand what I was seeing and I hadn’t lived through the things my parents had.

The tableau on the other side of the picture window was normal as far as I could see. The street. The houses. Nothing had changed. The only difference I could detect was the dark blue, four door sedan parked in front of the house across the street. On close inspection, one could see some official looking words stenciled on the driver’s side door, although they were unreadable at this distance. The only other things out of place besides the car were the two solemn looking men in uniform standing on our neighbor’s front porch.

Back then, I didn’t understand. There are those times now that I wish I still didn’t. But, I am also thankful that I do.

Yesterday I posted a Facebook status update lamenting the fact that I hadn’t yet written my Sunday morning blog entry, and wondering at what the subject should be. I received many suggestions, most of which will probably end up as future entries. However, when I sat down to pen this one something dawned on me…

I have an uncle buried at Jefferson Barracks Cemetery. He saw action with the Navy in Korea. I have a great uncle who saw action in Korea as well. My grandfather was in the National Guard during WWI. My father-in-law was in the National Guard. At least one of EKay’s uncles saw action in WWII.

I have an uncle who was in Vietnam. I have friends who were in Vietnam. I have friends who were deployed during Desert Shield and eventually, Desert Storm. I have relatives who pulled multiple tours in Iraq. I have friends whose children – kids that I watched grow up at our weekend BBQ’s and float trips – who have seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Friends in the Air Force. A nephew who was a Marine. A nephew who is going into the Air Force…

The list goes on, and on…

So, today, instead of writing something funny, I thought maybe I’d take a moment to say thanks to all of my family, friends, and everyone else in uniform who is separated from me by a mere six degrees… I may not always agree with the reason behind a given war, (conflict, or whatever they may want to call it), but I’m thankful for those who defend my right to be funny the other 364 days out of the year.

More to come…

Murv

I’m a little odd, but I guess we already knew that, didn’t we?

But, my “half a bubble offedness” aside, I’m also a bit of a medical anomaly at times. Just ask my buddy Gina. I say ask her because she’s one of those folks who packs initials around behind her name. As in MD, which as we all know stands for, “Me Doctor.” So, Virginia Witt MD, can tell you I’m an odd duck. Take for instance that she recently suggested that I try Zyrtec for my allergies. Non-drowsy, 24 hour relief, and I can still manage to function and work… Yeah… Uh-huh… Right. I was comatose for 36 hours. But, I don’t blame Gina. It’s all because I’m not quite right in the body chemistry department.

Just for grins I’ll give you another example, and it will even be far more relative to this story… (How’s that for a ham handed segue? Okay… Well, more of a rump roast handed segue then? Good.)

Anyway, yeah… Chicken Pox. The itchy, bitchy scourge of kids everywhere. Well, except for those who have had the vaccination, of course. My point is, I had them. Like every other kid on the block back in 19-koff-koff, I had the speckledy spots, annoying itch, fever, and general crabbiness o’ the pox. Good thing I got that out of the way, right? I thought so. Until I was 21, that is. I was working at Videoconcepts (as I’ve noted in other nostalgic blogs) and one of our customers came in with her kid to rent a movie. The next day she called us to let us know that her kid had broken out in the Pox, so beware. Well, no biggie for me. I’d already had them. I was safe.

Not.

I contracted them again. I’m here to tell you, Chicken Pox as an adult is just as bad, if not worse, than as a child.

Okay, so all good. I’ve now had Chicken Pox twice. If the antibodies didn’t build up in my system the first time around, surely they must have on the second go. I am now invincible against all things Chicken Pox related.

Then I met E K. Now, before you go to emailing the Evil Redhead and telling her that I’m blaming her for something, just hold on a sec. You see, it’s not her fault. As outlined in the “Mahwage” blogs, I “lell in fuve” and courted her. We were married. And then the Chicken Pox came… But, not right away.

You see, upon our getting hitched, I gained a couple of nieces. However, due to them living in a distant land called Washington State, it was a good bit before I ever met them. However, in the interest of not waxing ridiculous about the one or two years between the wedding and meeting the nieces, I’ll skip forward to the summer of the Chicken Pox.

These new additions to my extended family were a bounding, energetic pair of girls aged 4 and 5 as I recall. Or, maybe it was 3 and 5… Either way, they were pint-sized munchkins with more energy than humanly possible, and they were an absolute joy to be around. We did the sightseeing, BBQ’ing, and all that stuff that goes on when family visits from out of town. Our nieces took a shine to me, for what reason I will never know, and before long I became “Uncle Murk.” Soon, the favorite game became “Toss Puppy Patch.” Puppy Patch, you see, was a small, stuffed dog. I think it had something to do with a cross between Cabbage Patch Kids and Pound Puppies, which were the toys of the day. At any rate, “Toss Puppy Patch” eventually morphed into games of keep away and catch involving a Koosh Ball… Puppy Patch, it seems, was starting to get a little airsick. Still, we had a blast for several days, and “Uncle Murk” was binked on the Brainpan by a Koosh Ball on several occasions. Yet another reason I’m a bit addled, I suppose…

However, as with all good things, the visit came to an end. Brother-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, nieces, and even Puppy Patch had to return to the Pacific Northwest. Tearful goodbyes were said, and we all went back to our daily grinds.

Then, came the phone call. Niece one has full blown Chicken Pox, and niece two is coming down with them fast. No worries. I’ve had it twice now. I’m invincible!

Not.

A week later I was running a fever that pushed over the 104 barrier. My back was killing me, and tiny red dots were appearing everywhere. And, I do mean everywhere. The bottoms of my feet, inside my nose, and all manner of other places we won’t talk about. The Pox had come to kill me for the third time. The doctor (Not Gina) told me that I was in possession of the absolute worst case of Chicken Pox he had ever seen during his entire practice. In fact, I came very close to ending up in the hospital. Fortunately, I didn’t…

I did, however, spend quite a bit of time delirious. One day when E K came home from work during lunch to check on me, she found me literally laying in the middle of the floor babbling to myself. What’s worse, I was so delirious that when I opened my eyes and saw the stilettos and gams in front of me, I was scared to death of her. Not because of her EKayishness as one would  normally surmise, but because I thought she was going to have me “put to sleep.” (We just a few days before had needed to euthanize one of our felines, so my overheated brain was making some very odd connections.)

And, once again, before you run off telling my niece(s) that I blame them for this, put a sock in it. They already know. In fact, I joke with niece one about it all the time.

And, besides, niece one is really what this blog is all about.

You see, all of this happened many moons ago. Better than two decades, in fact. The energetic little munchkins have grown up. They are both lovely and brilliant young ladies now. And, when I say brilliant,  I do mean brilliant…

So brilliant, in fact, that niece one is getting herself a hoodie today. Or, at least, that’s what I like to call it, just because I’m silly that way. In case you aren’t getting the joke, by hoodie I mean today is the ceremony for her Doctoral Hooding.

Yep… Niece One is now Doctor Niece One. Professor of American History.

Unfortunately, due to a prior engagement, I am unable to attend this fashion show. But, I’ve already been in touch with her to let her know how proud I am.

Still, I really wanted to be there so I could bink her in the head with a Koosh Ball during the ceremony. You know… Just for old time’s sake…

Congrats, kiddo… Or should I say, Doc?

More to come…

Murv

Please Note: Names have been purposely omitted because I certainly don’t want my nieces to have to deal with the stigma of having me as their uncle. 😉