I See Dead People

Between working and rehabbing myself and my house, I haven't had time to comment on the passing of an iconic hair legend and an infamous child molester. Oh, sorry, he wasn't convicted was he? Bite me. Not to mention that Ed McMahon, Billy the Pitchman, and Karl Malden also joined them for what's turning out to be a very crowded queue at the Pearly Gates.

When Farrah and Michael died on the same day, several bloggers noted the same day passing of quite a few other famous people. But all of them pale beside the same day deaths of two of our most significant founding fathers, the tall and handsome Thomas Jefferson and the short and supremely unattractive John Adams. How amazing that these two former adversaries, who later became friends [think Clinton and Bush I], managed to die on the very same day. Even more astonishing was the day they picked. Because they didn't choose some ordinary Monday through Friday like the rest of us. They both hung on so they could exit on the most important day in the country's life at the time -- July 4, 1826 -- the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Cosmic. Karmic. Supercalifragilisticexpialidosius.

It makes me wonder whether dying on a significant day is an accident or the final act of a control freak personality. I read that Adams and Jefferson were both trying to hang on until the fourth of July. Adams said something like, "Jefferson lives" as he breathed his last, not knowing that T.J. had died earlier that day. Was Adams competing with Jefferson to be the last founding father [of the two] left standing?Did they make a wager of some sort? Regardless, I think their nearly simultaneous exits were truly a death defying feat, actually. When death came calling, it seems like both of them said, "Hold on, gimme a minute here. It's only July 3rd."

I've heard many stories of people dying on anniversaries and other significant dates within a family. My mother and I talked about the phenomenon before she died. She was always sensitive to avoiding anything that could cause psychological harm. We both thought it would be a cruel joke to croak on someone's birthday. In fact, I'm convinced she picked a day at the end of September because it had nothing to do with any celebrations in our family.

My father, on the other hand, chose to die on my sister's birthday. I think my sister was honored in some way. I remember that shortly before he passed away he mentioned her birthday was only two days away. It seemed as though he waited. I'm glad he didn't wait until my younger daughter's birthday a few days later. Or mine. Phew.

On the other hand, one of my aunts died on the very day she met her husband fifty years earlier. He was already long gone. In her case, I thought dying on the anniversary of their meeting was kind of sweet. I know her son was touched by it.

If you know you're dying and you're trying to hang on for one last Christmas or New Year's or someone's graduation, is that a good thing? I think it would make sense to hang on for a special occasion, especially a wedding, but I think you should try not to die on the same day as the big event. That's pretty selfish, don't you think? A little too me me me. Big celebrations aren't supposed to be all about you because you're going to be dead, okay? So at least try to die a day or two later. That way people aren't celebrating something wonderful each year, only to remember that the day got spoiled by something not so nice.

I'm here to help.

One Flew Out Of The Cuckoo's Nest

I almost didn't escape from rehab. I was loading up my car to leave when the head nurse approached. She asked, "Who is driving you home?"

"I'm driving myself home," I said.

"You can't do that," she practically shouted.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because nobody has done that before," she exclaimed.

Now there's a good reason.

"Well, there's nothing in your literature that says I can't drive myself home," I retorted, "Besides," I added, "I have no hip restrictions. So I am allowed to drive, as long as I'm not taking any narcotics."

"Are you on any narcotics?"

"Not for 24 hours. I had one Darvocet yesterday."

"How did you get your car here anyway?" She wondered, changing the subject.

"I got a ride to my house yesterday and drove it back," I explained.

"You left rehab?" She asked, looking astounded.

"Yes, my stepmom picked me up and drove me to get my car," I said.

"That's against our rules."

"But only you seem to know the rules. There's nothing in your literature that says I can't leave the premises."

"But you're supposed to get a pass."

"Nobody told me that I had to have a pass."

"Well, you are supposed to have one."

"But there's nothing in your literature. . ."

"That doesn't matter. No one is supposed to leave without telling us."

"Too late. By the way, if you're not going to let me drive myself home, how am I supposed to get there?"

"Can't you call someone to come get you?"

"And what should I do with my car when they get here to pick me up?"

"Hmmm. I guess you're going to have to sign a waiver."

So I signed a waiver that said I was leaving rehab against medical wishes because I was driving myself home. All of two miles. That way they figured they'd be off the hook if I had an accident on the way.

I wonder if I should have a plaque made to commemorate my milestone:

On this date in 2009,

Mrs. Linklater was the first person

to ever leave this rehab facility

while driving herself.

Bits And Pieces In No Particular Order

We had temperatures in the thirties a few days ago. Hello!!?? It's JUNE.

A really old geezer with two new knees, pushing a walker, stopped me in the hall at rehab a few days ago and said, "You're Mrs. Linklater aren't you?" Oh no, someone else from my past. As I looked at this ancient old person shuffling along, I prayed silently, "Please don't tell me we used to date." He smiled and said, "I'm Mr. Fixit [not his real name]. You used to come into our store for paint and other stuff thirty years ago." I not only didn't remember the store. I still don't remember him. Just what did I do that made him remember me?

When I encounter elderly couples married for decades, I often ask them how they met. One woman came to her future husband's photography studio for a college graduation photo. Sixty years later they are still married. Even better, he pulled out his wallet and showed me the photograph he took of her that fateful day. She was lovely. Another elderly husband I talked to carried a picture of himself as a young man. His wife was the one who wanted me to see it. He had been as handsome as any movie star. He also had a candid photo of the two of them taken on their honeymoon, fifty years before. The cuddly couple in the picture was a far cry from the woman using a walker and the old guy with lousy hearing sitting in front of me. Hey, we didn't used to be this way.

Our MTV culture practically demands that we produce evidence of our former youth. As if that will save us from the scrap heap of irrelevance. I have to admit there have been times when I have looked at a very old person curled up in a wheelchair, unable to speak or care for themselves, and tried to imagine what they were like in their twenties. Maybe that's why, when I meet a couple married for a long time, I have asked the wives whether they can still see the young man they met, even as he has aged. Particularly when the person he was no longer resembles the person he is. Apparently that's something they both do. You and I see the wrinkles, the gray hair and the infirmities. They see someone from forty years ago.

I found an article in the Smithsonian about a woman named Mary Meyer, who was murdered in 1964 on a path, while out for a walk in Georgetown. An unsolved homicide to this day. But there are many unsolved crimes in D.C. So why a story about her? Sure, her family was well connected, although that wouldn't be reason enough to write about anyone these days. She was also an accomplished artist. But not that good. Here's a possibility -- she had once been married to a CIA operative. Perhaps an Oliver Stone conspiracy theory? None of the above. Turns out her biggest claim to fame was an affair with JFK. I guess if you want to be remembered 35 years after you're dead, you have to have sex with the right people first.

I wonder if I have waited too long.

Hmmm. . .De French Make De-lish Chocolates

A friend of mine sent me a care package for entertainment and nourishment purposes during my sojourn here at the home for new hips.

Along with a lifetime supply of Burt's Bees body butter, a handmade sterling silver bracelet, and some eucalyptus flavored lip balm, she included a box of rare and unusual French chocolates from Bozeman, Montana. Rare, because when was the last time you used Bozeman, Montana and anything French in the same sentence? Unusual, because I couldn't help wondering if the flavors might include cow chip caramel or mocha hay bale.

How a young couple [French and American], who share a mutual passion for chocolate, found themselves making gourmet candies in the shadow of eleven mountain ranges, just up the road a piece from Yellowstone Park, beats me. But they've set up shop on Main Street, literally, and the folks are stopping by.

Naturally, being French, the box of chocolates came with instructions for use. Monsieur et madame talk about their chocolate like it was wine -- "Try to identify and describe [the] aroma in your own words. Floral? Tobacco? Spicy? Piquant? Fruity?"

Tobacco?

Like most folks from France, when it comes to food, they just assume, correctly, that we Americans don't know anything, so they always feel free to order us around. "Consume within a month from purchase. . .Allow the chocolates to come to room temperature before removing them from the container."

Usually if I get a box of chocolates I'll just eat them up. That's what they're there for, no? This time, being thoroughly intimidated, I didn't just mindlessly pop piece after piece into my mouth. Frankly I was afraid to. The French can do that to you. Not wanting to insult anyone, I sure wasn't going to poke the bottom to see what flavor was inside. Have I mentioned that these were authentic French chocolates? Made by people who speak French, and who, for some reason, chose to live in Montana instead of opening up their fancy pants place in New York, like anyone else from France would ordinarily do.

Before I dared to have a piece, I first read about it, since each of these masterpieces has its own little story. Then I inhaled its aroma per the instructions. "Tune out everything around you but the dizzying aroma of the chocolate."

Finally I carefully put a piece in my mouth and let it slowly "linger on [my] tongue." These were not the raspberry creams of my youth. Soon I was sucking on flavors like Provencal Lavender and trying to discern the intricacies of a milk chocolate infusion blended with the scent of flowers. Then savor the delightful blend of Raspberry Thyme wrapped in chocolate ganache.

La Chatelaine Chocolate Company [www.chatelainechocolate.com] has forty different kinds of chocolate candy pieces. Some don't seem all that unusual -- the Praline, for instance, is made from hazelnut paste and milk chocolate. The Caramel Brule is dark chocolate blended with burnt caramel. But then we get into Geranium, a sophisticated blend of bourbon and geranium oil, with orange flower water and dark chocolate. And then there are the flavors which ordinarily wouldn't make any sense mixed with chocolate -- Olive Oil and Almond or Green Tea. Not to mention Black Peppercorn and one they call Gulf of Mexico -- a blend of milk chocolate ganache with sea salt. Somehow the odd combination of flavors doesn't seem so unusual once you get over your natural revulsion to combining the savory with the sweet. A la hot chocolate and gravy.

How do I know this? Easy. All the candy is gone.