When we were kids, there were four fonts from which all knowledge flowed: (1) The Family Doctrine, (2) The Nuns of St. Patrick’s, (3) The neighborhood give-and-take, and (4) Comic books. While similar information was often available from the first three institutions, it was always the comic books which provided esoteric secrets unavailable elsewhere, and much sooner than other resources would reveal them. We knew, for instance, that you don’t tug on Superman’s cape way back in 1940; it took Jim Croce until 2003 to find this out. We knew that super-heroes had to have secret identities because otherwise super-villains would spy on them every minute of their lives and pull nasty stunts like robbing banks while Batman was having his hernia operation. Where else can you get this kind of stuff?
I’ll make you a bet right now. If you happen to be a male, you first discovered such things as oases in your comic books. First, of course, you learned about mirages. Some poor schlub was crawling across the desert, fading fast, bereft of water, when suddenly he saw some wavy lines on the horizon….just like the ones you used to see emanating from the street surface on particurlarly hot days. Most of the time, the lines were merely mirages, phantasms, the products of wishful thinking by the doomed crawler. Now and then, however, it was not a mirage, it was an honestogod OASIS in the middle of nowhere, an incredible miracle—Salvation was at hand!
As time went by, you learned that oases actually existed, formed from underground rivers or aquifers where water can reach the surface naturally by pressure or by man-made wells. Vegetation often springs up around the water and, if the area is large enough, a habitat for small animals is provided. The oasis enables life where no life was possible before. The oasis becomes a center for replenishment. The oasis is a Godsend. Long live the oasis!
The Other Oasis
So now you are racing across the landscape, perhaps in an ambulance, possibly in the back seat of a car, ravaged by some horrible discomfort, short on time, in dire need of repair. You know the oasis is out there, but how far….it’s taking so long, after all, in an ultimate game of Are We There Yet? You are desperate, you may decide to become reacquainted with the God of your youth, consciousness arrives and departs in its own good time, you are merely a helpless accomplice. Finally, finally, you are there and the minions of the oasis fly out to provide aid, to comfort and assuage, to carry you to Salvation. You are saved! A miracle! An unlucky few find midnight at the oasis, but for you it’s a bright new day.
Those of us who have arrived at a certain age pass hospitals daily, always giving them a sidelong glance of recognition, well-aware that in the not too distant future we will either be availing ourselves of their services or visiting a friend who is. We find faults with our oases, complaining of the horrendous costs, fixating on the dangerous mistakes made by doctors and staff, fretting over contagion, whimpering about the quality of the jello, and yes, sometimes Shit Happens. But a recent visit reminded us of mostly positive experiences, considerate nurses, caring support workers, doctors with super-powers of their own. After all, can Superman, x-ray vision or not, dissolve that clot in the left anterior descending artery? Can he deftly replace that leaky aortic valve? Can he head that aneurysm off at the pass? Can he even spell “nurse anaesthetist?” I don’t think so.
Whatever their shortcomings—mostly of management—our oases are peopled with individuals of character and good intention. It is no picnic to daily enter a theater of pain and despair, of tears and loss and hope foregone, and to nonetheless keep a smile on your face and a song in your heart. Kindness, a gentle word, proliferates in these oases, smiles are not held for ransom, frustration and anger are met with patience and encouragement. Forget about those hospital workers on television. Everybody in our oasis is not sleeping with one another or stealing Oxycodone from the medicine closet. They’re too busy taking care of people like Chuck LeMasters.
Original LeMasters, circa 1970, still available for viewing by art-lovers of distinction.
The Dinosaur Lives
You’ve heard, no doubt, of Grouchy Old Men? Chuck LeMasters was a Grouchy Young Man despite his youthful good looks and rare artistic talents, an ornery cuss, quick to frown, easy to anger. Should we call it artistic temperament or just bad manners? Either way, it stood him in poor stead, especially with women, of which Chuck often complained, “I can find plenty of people to sleep with but nobody who wants to put up with me” on a long-term basis. LeMasters worked for a time at the Subterranean Circus, popular enough with his male compadres but tough on the girls, especially any of them unfortunate enough to be his bosses, a condition which eventually led to his dismissal, one of only six people terminated in the 23-year history of the store. Chuck took it with good grace, aware of his shortcomings. I continued to see him, occasionally commissioning a piece of art, one of them an airbrush painting which hung over the doorway of the Circus’ companion store, Silver City, in 1970 and hangs over my bed to this day.
LeMasters eventually went to work for his lifetime pal and mentor, Leonard Weinbaum, in Gainesville/Micanopy, where he bloomed, creating sets for such fussy institutions as Disney and Universal, and a magnificent reproduction of The Alamo for the Texas State History Museum in Austin. When he took up agriculture, he displayed the same Midas Touch, producing top quality produce, an activity he still enjoys today. Matter of fact, if the State of Florida will just get on with it and finally legalize marijuana, we’re certain that LeMasters’ entry in the Country Fair will sit up there on the top shelf with a blue ribbon, right next to Aunt Annie’s picalilli.
Chuck mellowed with time, as do we all, and retired a few years ago to his country estate in Jonesville, just outside Hogtown, beseiged by the emphysema a lifetime of cigarettes will earn you. This nemesis dogged his steps, restricting his activities to the environs of Jonesville and fostering a somewhat lonely existence. LeMasters countered this by enlisting the aid of Modern Technology, creating a colorful Facebook page, rife with political contretemps, conspiracy theories, marijuana advocacy and more about rocks than you ever wanted to know. He built up a significant coterie of Friends, with whom he engaged more often and far more lovingly than he had his earlier associates. He celebrated their Good Times, he bucked them up when problems arose, always there with a kind word and a pat on a troubled back. Say what you will about Facebook, it is the emotional salvation of many.
This was all well and good but most of us aren’t meant to shuffle around an empty house all day, rarely visiting the Outside World, short on visitors. Chuck’s trek through The Doldrums was long and hard but, as often happens in these circumstances, one day the heavens parted and a Great Light suddenly appeared. His name was Lucky, a feisty West Highland White Terrier, a Scottish breed of dog with a distinctive white coat. It was love at first sight for both of them. Leonard Weinbaum avers that Lucky is the reason Chuck LeMasters is alive today and there’s no reason to doubt him; the pair were inseparable. If you invited Chuck anywhere, Lucky was coming, so prepare two plates if you don’t mind. In Camelot, that’s how conditions are.
Camelot doesn’t last forever, of course, and neither did Lucky. After a few years of impossible cameraderie, the little dog was suddenly struck down by a vile combination of health problems. All the King’s Horses and all the King’s Veterinarians could not put Lucky together again. Chuck posted a graphic photo on Facebook from the clinic, him sitting there mortally wounded with the dog in his arms, the euthanasia line still portruding from the pup’s leg. To say the photo was arresting is laughably inadequate. If you were to look up “shattered” in the dictionary, that picture would satisfy all need for definition. LeMasters’ shocked Facebook followers erupted in sympathy and affection, horrified at the news and scarred by the photograph. Leonard Weinbaum swept Chuck up and took him to his Keystone Heights home for the day, concerned that LeMasters raison d’ etre no longer existed and Chuck might come tumbling after.
Remarkably, LeMasters bounced back. It was a very slow bounce, filled with tears and regret and a soulful examination of one’s life, of past inadequacies, of time wasted, opportunities unmet. But Chuck opted to take the path of Gratitude for the Days of Wine and Roses spent with his little pet, relishing endless memories of romps together, of the Westie’s seeming ability to read Chuck’s thoughts and provide just the right response at just the correct time. His friends all encouraged Chuck to find another partner immediately, but LeMasters bided his time, eventually adopting a chihuahualike critter he named Timmy, a dog with serious trust issues who may have needed Chuck even more than LeMasters needed him. They continue to live happily ever after, so far as it goes.
Eight days ago, Chuck LeMasters entered surgery at North Florida Regional Oasis to correct digestive and urinary tract problems too icky to detail. His Facebook friends held their respective breaths for those four hours, well-aware that Chuck’s once imposing body was fragile now, perhaps unwilling to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous cutting. While many of today’s surgeries are performed robotically, allowing reduced bleeding and less pain, this was not one of them. Or, better put, these were not two of them. LeMasters had to undergo two sequential surgeries performed by different doctors, an imposition which would result in a ten-inch gash down his frontside. Once again, Chuck’s rugged constitution proved equal to the task. After seven days of moaning and groaning, of pushing the drug button for relief and having the drug button taken away, of waiting for the great god Defecation to arrive, LeMasters was finally released for transit and sent home yesterday. Chuck was smiling, his friends were thrilled but nobody was more excited than Timmy. Unless, of course, they have Earth TV on whatever orb it is where dispatched Westies go.
That’s all, folks….
