Who To Consult When Life Gets Complicated
Atlanta, GA
April 18, 2020
With a frozen shoulder, my immobile right arm allows only a couple sleeping positions.
Pain prohibits placing pressure on the right side. The left side is most promising, but that pose can’t be held all night. I must periodically shift to a sub-optimal posture. When I do, I am awake for several minutes. Each night is a series of naps disturbed by piercing pangs.
Last Sunday was worse than normal. I’d either bump the baseboard, bang the bookshelf, or elbow the dog…and continually aggravate my back. Finally, I’d had enough. I had to get off the floor.
We’d been there all night. As precaution against a potential swarm of nocturnal tornadoes, we decided to sleep in the basement. Our only subterranean cushion is a sofa that is too close to a window for protection. The middle of the basement offered the greatest security, but the least comfort.
On padded carpeting, atop down comforters, or inside sleeping bags, we camped underground and endured what ended up being a very prudent yet blessedly unnecessary sacrifice, like an un-redeemed insurance policy or expired put option.
The storms passed to our north, leaving in their wake no damage, a few downed branches, and marvelous weather.
We’re not able to travel this month. But it’s nice that San Diego could come here. Or at least its climate has. Excepting the aberrational Easter storms, the last ten days have been miraculous. Under such conditions, I couldn’t resist trimming a tree with only one limb.
Last summer I planted a couple dozen azaleas as a border between our back yard and our back 40. Behind several of the new shrubs stands a birch of moderate size and extensive branches.
A couple of them blocked even the partial sun our young bushes crave. The leaves hung low, skimming the top of the azaleas like a servant swaying palms over Cleopatra or a slave dropping grapes to Nero. They had to go. Yesterday, I ensured they would.
But the branches met the trunk at least ten feet off the ground. Unable to raise my right elbow above my armpit, a ladder would be required. I also grabbed our extendable clippers and, like Thoreau, went to the woods, deliberately.
The ground was uneven, so I rested the bottom of the ladder on an exposed root, and its side against the tree. Standing one step from the top, I extended one prong of the clippers with my left arm, using my right as a prop to support the other lever.
The lower branch went quietly. But the higher one was ornery. I cut it as far as I could, about half way. My right arm being useless, I was unable to switch the clippers to slice into the other side. But it was severed enough that by simply pulling it I could probably separate it from the tree.
I was able with my left hand to toss one arm of the clippers over the branch. Then, holding each handle, I could apply weight sufficient to pull it from the trunk.
With each elbow tucked toward my ribs, I began to pull. As I did, the ladder leg slipped from its supporting root. While it teetered, I clung to clippers hanging precariously from the partially torn branch.
Astrophysicists call the moment a particle gets so close to a black hole it cannot escape the “event horizon.” It’s the point of no return. That’s where I was.
The ladder and branch were about to give. If I released the clippers, I’d go with them. My right arm could not reach the tree for support. I decided to kill two birds, and perhaps myself, with one stone. One way or another, the branch and I would come down.
Knowing the branch would likely yield under my weight, I kicked the ladder away and hung from the clippers. Within seconds, the bough broke. Fortunately, my neck didn’t. I landed safely on my feet, and dragged the obstinate branch to an unmarked grave.
In addition to indulging outdoor idiocy, I returned to work this week after taking the prior one off. My wife has worked throughout, sometimes converting our outdoor deck into an al fresco office.
Our sons are essentially finished with their school year. To fill their time and fertilize their minds, we’ve assigned some homeschool courses they’d not otherwise receive. This week they began a series on Financial Planning. Alexander has also continued the ground school courses required for his private pilot license.
His younger brother has channeled creative juices toward the kitchen, where in the last week he has baked a batch of brownies, tins of cookies, and a wonderful chocolate chip cake.
Like pizza delivery to a Frat house, the warm aroma drew indolent bystanders toward the bountiful oven. From it came trays of treats that disappeared with sudden, sometimes surreptitious, ease. Like bad friends in a bar fight, these delectables tended to vanish whenever our young chef turned his head.
David is master not only of a periodic pâtisserie, but of the occasional evening entrée. He enjoys serving as Sous Chef to his mother, but is often Chef de Cuisine for all of us. A couple nights ago he fried chicken for our dinner, in a successful attempt to emulate his beloved Chick fil-A sandwiches.
David’s cooking reminded us how much he enjoyed baking even as a small child. I then recalled his many other areas of early interest and aptitude.
When I rediscovered several videos of my grandfather last week, I also stumbled upon a 2007 sequence in which his great-grandson reminded us what Easter is all about. I considered sharing, but opted for sparing, these clips.
But from his toddler’s pulpit, our tiny son’s little homily was a welcome elixir to a Holy Week devoid of Mass. And a solemn reminder how quickly 13 years can pass. Had he heard it, David’s great-grandfather would have appreciated the three minute sermon’s soul of wit.
Pointing to a Crucifix on the kitchen wall, our two year-old explained the Passion…from the capture in Gethsemane to the criminals at Golgotha. Peter, Mary Magdalene, and Pontius Pilate are all credited by name. The description of pain, the depiction of the Crucifixion, and the depth of emotion evoke the simple sincerity of gospel accounts.
One of those instructs us to suffer the little children, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs. Maybe theology, and life, are as Arthur Schnabel said of Mozart’s sonatas: too easy for children, too complicated for adults. And perhaps made that way by both.
Not unlike climbing trees.
JD
