...but TRUE!

Hello, friends.  I haven't been here for a few days and it's nice to be back.  And for those of you who like things short and sweet and to the point ( as opposed to my usual verbosity) you will like the amount of energy I have to expend on anything, now that surgery is over.  It's very odd.  The whole operation only took a couple of hours, and now I feel like I am just completely zapped of energy.  Poco a poco, as they say in sunny Spain -  little by little.

But before I go heat up some soup I want to share this story.  I know I have told you 1,000 times about the interesting connection I have with my long-departed father.  You would never have imagined that I sprang forth from his gene pool.  To say that I was a Tony Danza sort of guy from a Laurence Olivier sort of family would sum things up nicely.  Dad was dignified, a pure gentleman, and gifted with all sorts of talents.  And if you know me, well.  He always hoped that I would become a skilled craftsman or artisan or respected member of society, but he began to suspect something was amiss when, at age 8, I confided to him that I felt that being a TV game show host was the most noble calling known to mankind.

But in his way he still looks out for me.  Here's a perfect example.   After my surgery on Monday, I spent about six hours in the recovery room, the first three because I was still looped from the happy juice, and then because there were no rooms available in the wing that spinal surgery patients use.  The staff told me that it appeared that I would have to stay overnight in the recovery area, which is certainly better than staying at a bus stop, but it would have meant that Peggy couldn't have stayed with me, as the plan was has I been on the regular floor.  And yes, far down on the list, but still on the list, was that there are no TVs in the recovery area, which would have meant not seeing the Ravens beat the Jets.  But I didn't relish the thought of not having Peggy there with me.  I never do like being without her.

So I closed my eyes in a narcotized haze and said, "Dad, can you pull something together here and get me a room on the third floor so I won't have to stay here?"  And it was within fifteen minutes that a nurse danced into my little cubbyhole and said,"Good news, Mr Clark!  You're moving to room 3025!"

My father's telephone number at home for the last 42 years of his life was 410 - xxx - 3025.  Don't try to tell me he wasn't letting me know he came through again.