You Are My Sunshine (Jimmy Davis and Charles Mitchel)
You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.
Simple. Poignant. Appropriate. Nobody does it like the old guys. In the depths of her dementia, You Are My Sunshine was one of the last things my mother could remember in its completeness. We used to drive around, holding hands and singing the song, in her last days of coherence, and not just the chorus, either. But today’s sunshine is Siobhan, my Inamorata and traveling companion of the past 26 years. I’m not sure anybody else would put up with me for that long and I guess I’ll never find out. I do know that I would be somewhat diminished in the areas of health and happiness were I out of her orbit, nor would I have received anywhere near the massive collection of driving advice. For all of which, I am eternally grateful.
Birthdays around here always begin with a serenade from the Ellison family of Chattanooga. There may be four of them, there may be only one, but somebody is sure to call you at the crack of dawn and sing Happy Birthday To You. And then, hungry and weary from their efforts, they will devour a cake in your honor, and rightly so.
Siobhan is a morning person, eager to hop out of bed and begin her day. Her regimen is unvarying: first, she puts on her socks, then panties, then bra. She does all of this standing. I could, too, of course, except for the socks part, during which I might occasionally fall on my head. Then, she makes the tea. It is absolutely necessary to Siobhan’s day that tea be made. I think it’s got something to do with being born in England. Even though she only hung around there for five years, she was branded with the tea-devil’s sign and is forever at his mercy. A couple of large cups should do, although there will be further visits to the tea cabinet later in the day. You’ll have some, too, won’t you? If not, Siobhan will be disappointed. Then, it’s time to feed the horses. Siobhan insists that Zip, her favorite, speak to her and Zip usually manages to accomplish this—in an explosively loud and eardrum-shattering whinny—just as the feeder (usually me) arrives at his stall. Feeding done, she repairs to her office to mull over the schedule for the day. There will be no breakfast and probably no lunch, either, which is why we must allow her unlimited quantities of tea. And why she still weighs 114 pounds.
Most of Siobhan’s weekdays involve testing blood sent in by hundreds of people across the country who are trying to determine—or already know—whether their horses have the disease, Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis, and if so to what degree. Testing done, emails, faxes and phone calls must be made to instruct clients on the next steps in dealing with the problem. Some of these clients are emotional basket cases, certain their horses are doomed, and they must be given hope. The curative drug, Oroquin-10, which Siobhan has devised, must be dispatched to the hinterlands like Mighty Mouse to the rescue. A ridiculously unbelievable 93% of the time this works just dandy but there can be temporary setbacks and reversals and all these must be dealt with. Siobhan is both a healer and psychiatrist, many satisfied customers amazed at their horses’ turnarounds but terrified by a potential relapse. They call, they write, they even send chocolate, an homage to the horse-fixer. This, of course, is absolutely unnecessary, though I must admit we never send it back. Hours must be spent on the phone explaining to veterinarians the rationale behind the drug and how to use it. Some of these veterinarians decide they have made a friend for life and begin to call Siobhan for advice on other matters. What the hell, she figured out a toughie like EPM, maybe she can figure out what to do about Lyme Disease or equine warts.
The debilitating part of the day involves dealing with the Food & Drug Administration, an unending process not unlike descending to the ninth level of hell. See, the FDA does not want to let any dangerous stuff slip through the cracks so they are very careful to set up impossible blockades for….well….just about everything. A lot of wonderful cures may never see the light of day but, by God, nothing nefarious will sneak through on their watch, either. This is the typical mindset of your average government employee, do what’s safe for his or her own personal career. It’s a huge miracle that anything ever gets approved by this crew and we’re not sure anything ever does unless it’s ramrodded by the large pharmaceutical companies which have no shortage of money and lawyers. We haven’t given up, though.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy, however, and we don’t want that to happen to Siobhan so we take her out to the occasional movie or sporting event. Last night, we had a pre-birthday dinner in downtown Ocala with our neighbor, Allen, and our friends from the gym, John and Sharon. Now, before we say anything mean about Sharon’s restaurant selection, we would like to advise everyone that Sharon is one of the three or four nicest people in town but also that she cries easily and we would rather plant a big wet one on Rush Limbaugh than let that happen. But if there’s one thing we are around here, it’s honest, and honesty requires us to confess that Harry’s on the square in Ocala is not our favorite eating establishment. For one thing, it’s loud. No, it’s not just loud, it’s Invasion-Of-The-Huns-loud. You can’t speak with anyone without actually leaning over the table, and Allen, of course, left home without his ear horn, a niggling bad habit of his. And the service was bad, perhaps due to the drastic imbalance in customers-to-waitresses of oh, about 1000 to 1. Also, our waitress had a mind like a cardboard trap—she kept forgetting everything. And she couldn’t really say which dishes had garlic in them and which didn’t. “Just to be on the safe side,” she said, good-humoredly, “let’s just assume they all do, ha ha.”
Nonetheless, this restaurant was packed and people—a lot of people—were waiting in line at the preposterous hour of 5:30, a fact which probably says more about the general quality of restaurants in Ocala than anything else. In the interests of fairness, however, we should mention that Sharon’s choice probably had more to do with the beautifully decorated downtown square just outside our large boothside window, a Christmas fairyland of colorful lights guaranteed to brighten the moods even of crochety old people like Allen and Bill. But next year, we’re going to Mildred’s.
Today Is Your Birthday
One thing we can’t complain about is Harry’s penchant for loading up your plate with food, a dangerous practice which could continue tonight when we visit Master Chef Hal Hollis and his wife, Jennie, who are preparing Siobhan’s birthday dinner. The Hollises are generally a pretty quiet couple who divide their ample spare time between rummaging through Good Will stores and purchasing country estates but they always get a little rowdy at this time of year. Jennie repairs to her workshop where she and her elves whip up beautiful decorations of ribbons and greenery, which, if you’ve been NICE, may suddenly appear on your gate or mailbox as if by magic, which is all well and good. If, on the other hand, you have been NAUGHTY, well, that’s when Jennie gets a little bit surly. And that’s when she gets Hal to drive his pickup down the street at 50 mph while she takes out your mailbox with her giant softball bat. So be good, for goodness sake.
Siobhan was supposed to be flying today, one of her birthday presents from Bill, who bought her an hour in the air, piloting around the area with Captain Mark in his little Cessna. This was supposed to happen Tuesday (so we could get blog pictures), then today, but the airport was socked in both days. Of course, for the previous six weeks there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Just our luck. Anyway, we’re trying again on Saturday, so keep your fingers crossed. Pictures to follow.
Siobhan has advised me that our trip to Paris may have to be postponed due to excessive business. I am not happy about this but my fallback vacation is Rocky Mountain National Park, so I can live with the disappointment. I suspected this might happen so while we were in Kentucky I made a point of detouring to their version of Paris for lunch (photo above). Nobody can say Bill doesn’t keep his promises.
For all you people out there who have not sent Siobhan her birthday present yet, she prefers the Hershey bars with almonds. And not those skinny ones, the real thick alternative. And just in case you think you don’t really need to appease Siobhan, you can never really be sure that one of you won’t be getting a horrendous disease like Equine Protozoal Encephalitis. Or Lyme Disease. Or equine warts, even. Priority mail, please, so the candy doesn’t melt.
That’s all, folks….
You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear,
How much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.
Simple. Poignant. Appropriate. Nobody does it like the old guys. In the depths of her dementia, You Are My Sunshine was one of the last things my mother could remember in its completeness. We used to drive around, holding hands and singing the song, in her last days of coherence, and not just the chorus, either. But today’s sunshine is Siobhan, my Inamorata and traveling companion of the past 26 years. I’m not sure anybody else would put up with me for that long and I guess I’ll never find out. I do know that I would be somewhat diminished in the areas of health and happiness were I out of her orbit, nor would I have received anywhere near the massive collection of driving advice. For all of which, I am eternally grateful.
Birthdays around here always begin with a serenade from the Ellison family of Chattanooga. There may be four of them, there may be only one, but somebody is sure to call you at the crack of dawn and sing Happy Birthday To You. And then, hungry and weary from their efforts, they will devour a cake in your honor, and rightly so.
Siobhan is a morning person, eager to hop out of bed and begin her day. Her regimen is unvarying: first, she puts on her socks, then panties, then bra. She does all of this standing. I could, too, of course, except for the socks part, during which I might occasionally fall on my head. Then, she makes the tea. It is absolutely necessary to Siobhan’s day that tea be made. I think it’s got something to do with being born in England. Even though she only hung around there for five years, she was branded with the tea-devil’s sign and is forever at his mercy. A couple of large cups should do, although there will be further visits to the tea cabinet later in the day. You’ll have some, too, won’t you? If not, Siobhan will be disappointed. Then, it’s time to feed the horses. Siobhan insists that Zip, her favorite, speak to her and Zip usually manages to accomplish this—in an explosively loud and eardrum-shattering whinny—just as the feeder (usually me) arrives at his stall. Feeding done, she repairs to her office to mull over the schedule for the day. There will be no breakfast and probably no lunch, either, which is why we must allow her unlimited quantities of tea. And why she still weighs 114 pounds.
Most of Siobhan’s weekdays involve testing blood sent in by hundreds of people across the country who are trying to determine—or already know—whether their horses have the disease, Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis, and if so to what degree. Testing done, emails, faxes and phone calls must be made to instruct clients on the next steps in dealing with the problem. Some of these clients are emotional basket cases, certain their horses are doomed, and they must be given hope. The curative drug, Oroquin-10, which Siobhan has devised, must be dispatched to the hinterlands like Mighty Mouse to the rescue. A ridiculously unbelievable 93% of the time this works just dandy but there can be temporary setbacks and reversals and all these must be dealt with. Siobhan is both a healer and psychiatrist, many satisfied customers amazed at their horses’ turnarounds but terrified by a potential relapse. They call, they write, they even send chocolate, an homage to the horse-fixer. This, of course, is absolutely unnecessary, though I must admit we never send it back. Hours must be spent on the phone explaining to veterinarians the rationale behind the drug and how to use it. Some of these veterinarians decide they have made a friend for life and begin to call Siobhan for advice on other matters. What the hell, she figured out a toughie like EPM, maybe she can figure out what to do about Lyme Disease or equine warts.
The debilitating part of the day involves dealing with the Food & Drug Administration, an unending process not unlike descending to the ninth level of hell. See, the FDA does not want to let any dangerous stuff slip through the cracks so they are very careful to set up impossible blockades for….well….just about everything. A lot of wonderful cures may never see the light of day but, by God, nothing nefarious will sneak through on their watch, either. This is the typical mindset of your average government employee, do what’s safe for his or her own personal career. It’s a huge miracle that anything ever gets approved by this crew and we’re not sure anything ever does unless it’s ramrodded by the large pharmaceutical companies which have no shortage of money and lawyers. We haven’t given up, though.
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy, however, and we don’t want that to happen to Siobhan so we take her out to the occasional movie or sporting event. Last night, we had a pre-birthday dinner in downtown Ocala with our neighbor, Allen, and our friends from the gym, John and Sharon. Now, before we say anything mean about Sharon’s restaurant selection, we would like to advise everyone that Sharon is one of the three or four nicest people in town but also that she cries easily and we would rather plant a big wet one on Rush Limbaugh than let that happen. But if there’s one thing we are around here, it’s honest, and honesty requires us to confess that Harry’s on the square in Ocala is not our favorite eating establishment. For one thing, it’s loud. No, it’s not just loud, it’s Invasion-Of-The-Huns-loud. You can’t speak with anyone without actually leaning over the table, and Allen, of course, left home without his ear horn, a niggling bad habit of his. And the service was bad, perhaps due to the drastic imbalance in customers-to-waitresses of oh, about 1000 to 1. Also, our waitress had a mind like a cardboard trap—she kept forgetting everything. And she couldn’t really say which dishes had garlic in them and which didn’t. “Just to be on the safe side,” she said, good-humoredly, “let’s just assume they all do, ha ha.”
Nonetheless, this restaurant was packed and people—a lot of people—were waiting in line at the preposterous hour of 5:30, a fact which probably says more about the general quality of restaurants in Ocala than anything else. In the interests of fairness, however, we should mention that Sharon’s choice probably had more to do with the beautifully decorated downtown square just outside our large boothside window, a Christmas fairyland of colorful lights guaranteed to brighten the moods even of crochety old people like Allen and Bill. But next year, we’re going to Mildred’s.
Today Is Your Birthday
One thing we can’t complain about is Harry’s penchant for loading up your plate with food, a dangerous practice which could continue tonight when we visit Master Chef Hal Hollis and his wife, Jennie, who are preparing Siobhan’s birthday dinner. The Hollises are generally a pretty quiet couple who divide their ample spare time between rummaging through Good Will stores and purchasing country estates but they always get a little rowdy at this time of year. Jennie repairs to her workshop where she and her elves whip up beautiful decorations of ribbons and greenery, which, if you’ve been NICE, may suddenly appear on your gate or mailbox as if by magic, which is all well and good. If, on the other hand, you have been NAUGHTY, well, that’s when Jennie gets a little bit surly. And that’s when she gets Hal to drive his pickup down the street at 50 mph while she takes out your mailbox with her giant softball bat. So be good, for goodness sake.
Siobhan was supposed to be flying today, one of her birthday presents from Bill, who bought her an hour in the air, piloting around the area with Captain Mark in his little Cessna. This was supposed to happen Tuesday (so we could get blog pictures), then today, but the airport was socked in both days. Of course, for the previous six weeks there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Just our luck. Anyway, we’re trying again on Saturday, so keep your fingers crossed. Pictures to follow.
Siobhan has advised me that our trip to Paris may have to be postponed due to excessive business. I am not happy about this but my fallback vacation is Rocky Mountain National Park, so I can live with the disappointment. I suspected this might happen so while we were in Kentucky I made a point of detouring to their version of Paris for lunch (photo above). Nobody can say Bill doesn’t keep his promises.
For all you people out there who have not sent Siobhan her birthday present yet, she prefers the Hershey bars with almonds. And not those skinny ones, the real thick alternative. And just in case you think you don’t really need to appease Siobhan, you can never really be sure that one of you won’t be getting a horrendous disease like Equine Protozoal Encephalitis. Or Lyme Disease. Or equine warts, even. Priority mail, please, so the candy doesn’t melt.
That’s all, folks….
