When my husband Joe had cancer surgery five years ago, each of his family members responded just as I knew they would. John, his father, decided to organize the family's calls. Because, of course, everything would run so much more smoothly. Thus Jane, Matt, and Jim recieved detailed sheets of instructions in the mail. Telling them which days to telephone r.j. smith hospital to talk to Joe and what presents to send. Jane, enraged, promptly threw a tantrum. Calling Matt and me to complain about her father's overbearing behavior. "I," she yelled, "am a Psychiatrist who knows how to handle these situations, i am not still a child." Matt also responded predictably. By avoiding the situation. He threw himself into his work. Normally a late sleeper,
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As the British call it. She was quite a law-abiding lady, with hair pulled back in a bun and hose with very straight seams, prim in most respects. Until the aroma of hard cider filled her nostrils. Then she would lift one of her carefully tweezed eyebrows ever so slightly, murmur a vague but polite excuse to those present, and head directly for the cider. The family all of whom knew these alarming symptoms only too well immediately would launch their individual strategic maneuvers.
To divert her attention from the cider. Uncle Bob a man who hated confrontation and who loved mysteries usually began his own campaign to find the cider source first. Before she found it. Aunt martha was more direct, she would grab Winifred's arm with the force of a well-muscled wrestler and pull her toward the kitchen for a "friendly talk." Uncle John was the cagiest, therefore he was the most successful. With utmost discretion infinite patience and resolute determination he would trail Winifred. As if he had no particular interest in where or what she was doing, then he would just happen to engage her in a heated conversation on her favorite topic: the royal society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. Because of these strategies, the family managed to keep Winifreds cider consumption to a minimum. Until the fateful summer of 1979. The swill summer we called it
As the British call it. She was quite a law-abiding lady, with hair pulled back in a bun and hose with very straight seams, prim in most respects. Until the aroma of hard cider filled her nostrils. Then she would lift one of her carefully tweezed eyebrows ever so slightly, murmur a vague but polite excuse to those present, and head directly for the cider. The family all of whom knew these alarming symptoms only too well immediately would launch their individual strategic maneuvers.
To divert her attention from the cider. Uncle Bob a man who hated confrontation and who loved mysteries usually began his own campaign to find the cider source first. Before she found it. Aunt martha was more direct, she would grab Winifred's arm with the force of a well-muscled wrestler and pull her toward the kitchen for a "friendly talk." Uncle John was the cagiest, therefore he was the most successful. With utmost discretion infinite patience and resolute determination he would trail Winifred. As if he had no particular interest in where or what she was doing, then he would just happen to engage her in a heated conversation on her favorite topic: the royal society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. Because of these strategies, the family managed to keep Winifreds cider consumption to a minimum. Until the fateful summer of 1979. The swill summer we called it