Tuesday, May 27, 2014

A Sweetish Hospital


I did volunteer driving for seniors for years, which took me to a lot of doctors’ appointments and a lot of hospitals. But I was only there as an onlooker. I hadn’t been to any hospital on my own behalf since I’d had my tonsils out when I was six years old. The prospect of being looked at rather than just looking made me freeze in terror.

I realized how cheap it was to give comforting advice, how easy to be optimistic - when it wasn’t me on the examining table. How annoyingly facile my consolations must have been to all those in the past who had really been facing the cold steel gaze of various hospital apparatuses. If anyone had accompanied me to this hospital appointment and had reeled off a rote “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right,” I knew I would have looked for the nearest custard pie to smoosh in her face. I realized that’s probably how the victims of my volunteer consolation must have felt.

But I soon saw there was a big difference between most of the hospitals I’d been to by proxy, and this very real and personal visitation. Most of the hospitals I’d visited vicariously had been large downtown complexes, spanning and sprawling over multiple wings, multiple high-rise parking facilities, and multiple “Centers” named after donors. In most cases, I could expect to have to leverage my charge in a wheelchair between distant outposts, sometimes even braving the outdoors in the process. We had to plot appointed meeting spots where I would pick her up again after her day’s rigors and after my rigors fetching my car from the 10th level of whatever garage I’d used. These different parking levels were usually distinguished only by some forgettable color coding and by the kind of Muzak that filtered out from their audio speakers. As a result of all these precarious, protracted forays, I still smell antiseptic whenever I hear Johnny Mathis singing “Chances Are…”

I assumed this was the kind of experience I’d again face when my family doctor sent me to have some outpatient hospital tests. But my experience turned out to be the opposite of the ones I’d ushered my friends through in the large, prestigious downtown hospitals of Chicago. My PPO plan had me assigned to a smaller neighborhood hospital, cozily embedded in residential city streets.

Swedish Covenant Hospital did have its own parking facility, but I avoided the $4 a day parking fee by leaving my car several blocks away on a tree-lined side street. Walking back to the Hospital under blossoming linden trees, past front yards with gurgling fountains – was a lot nicer than the harrowing downtown traffic snarls I’d faced in my earlier experience of hospitals.

I was in for a further pleasant surprise when I got into the Hospital itself. Rather than the scattered acreage of different departments, I found that the variety of tests I had to take were all sequestered in the same “Patient Testing” nook which was itself just a few yards to the right of the Hospital’s one-and-only entrance. I had blood drawn, then stepped a few feet over to have X-rays, then a few more feet brought me to the ultrasound room. This togetherness was like a delightful throwback to the days of the one-room school house. There was no need for making expeditions down long, forbidding corridors whose fluorescent lights eerily lit up as you approached, and then shut off after you’d passed – reminding you of the darkness of your mortality. There was no navigating across bridges to other buildings, other specialists. There was no need to go in search of wheelchairs, no need to be shuttled up and down elevators between distant terminals.

I did see that there were some other out-buildings connected with the hospital, in one case by a bridge. But I assumed those distances would only have to be traversed by people with some really unusual, specific needs. The average patient such as myself could find everything right there, at her fingertips.

This cozy warren of adjacent testing rooms was presided over by friendly staff that beckoned me forward almost the moment I arrived. Four barbers – no waiting! I had to go to the Hospital on several successive days because one set of tests required strict fasting while another set required that I down a gallon of water. (Well, it seemed like a gallon.) On these successive visits, I got to be almost chummy with one of the men at the “Testing” reception desk. By the time of my third visit, we greeted each other with all the eager curiosity of twins who’d been separated at birth.

I saw that the Hospital’s clientele was an enlivening mix of nationalities. During my brief waits on one of the couches outside the test labs, I saw a colorful parade of people wearing everything from turbans to dashikis to dirndls to serapes. So although this Hospital’s neighborhood had once consisted more strictly of immigrants from Scandinavia, the area had apparently blossomed into being a veritable international house. In keeping with this world-wide welcoming, there is a sculpting of a globe outside the Hospital’s revolving door entrance, showing the efforts of people on all the different continents to improve the environment. This all-embracing aspect of the Hospital adds a touching grace note to its appeal.
 
                                    

I was surprised and disappointed to read some of the very negative reviews that Swedish Covenant Hospital got on the Internet’s “Yelp.” But most of these reviews applied to its Emergency Room, so I felt as long as I could steer clear of that extremis, I could maintain my happy impression of the place’s friendly, efficient, pouched approach.

It wasn’t long before I coincidentally ran across another reference to the Hospital. Northeastern University is nearby. On one of my visits back to that school, my alma mater, I picked up the latest copy of the school newspaper and saw an article reporting a health fair to take place at the Hospital. Except - the student reporter who’d written this article seemingly wasn’t on a proper first-name basis with different parts of the community, and in all seriousness, she had written that the fair was to take place at the “Sweetish Covenant Hospital.”

I had also noticed that a smaller sign near the Hospital’s entrance makes a further culinary offering of the facility. The sign is missing a letter - so the place announces itself as “SW * DISH COVENANT HOSPITAL.”
                                     

In a world that increasingly centers on mega-stores and mega-medical centers, many of Chicago’s smaller neighborhood hospitals have had to close. I’m glad this source of neighborly health care has so far managed to hold-out against this tide of massive consolidation. Maybe the errors and dropped letters connected with its name aren’t really such misprints. The place is sort of a tasty “Sweetish Dish” after all.

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Walking a Few Blocks Beyond


You might have lived on your same city street all your life, but never ventured down it past a certain point. Or perhaps you’ve explored up and down your own street, but there are many nearby streets you’ve never explored past the corner convenience store where you get your coffee, or past the gas station where you regularly fill up before you veer off to pursue your day’s business along farther avenues.

The other day I realized how many blocks right in my own neighborhood I knew nothing about. I would turn off the next main street and visit an acquaintance who lived just a few doors further down on a residential street near my house. But I had no idea what lay beyond on that typical-seeming street. For all I knew, it might have been labeled “Here be monsters,” as the old cartographers would label the terra incognita that no explorer had yet reached on our globe.

So the other day I made my own exploration. I passed my friend’s house and walked on down the street, farther than I’d ever been before. And there were wonders to behold.

After a while, I found the street was blocked off to cars. The only way anyone could have continued straight ahead was on foot, across an old bridge that spanned the Chicago River there at one of its shallowest, laziest stretches. The sidewalk led up onto the bridge with its picturesquely rusty cross-beams. Looking through the diamond-frame of those cross-beams, I saw some ducks. They weren’t paddling on the water. This early balmy spring day was too leisurely for any effort like that. They were letting the current just drift them along, taking them where it would.
 
                                            

Where the bridge rejoined the sidewalk on the far side again, there was a triangle of fenced-in land that seemed to belong to no one in particular. It was heaped with antique discard - with old bushel baskets, tires, and stove compartments. Some weedy vines had overgrown this ancient offal, running down to the water’s edge. But the overall effect was not one of ugly discord. In this context, the accumulated rubbish looked like a treasure trove that invited a searching eye.

I went on in the same unappointed spirit as the ducks. Many of the houses along here were neat bungalows, with catchy yard decorations. I passed miniature windmills and lighthouses. I walked along the coming block, and then the next. Then I was burst out onto another business street. I had driven along this street fairly often, but I’d never come at it from this angle before, or on foot. It was like lying down on your kitchen floor. There were unsuspected twists and turns, pipings and utilities. Looking at the workings of this ethnic neighborhood from such a different angle of approach, I saw things from a whole new perspective. I could see things that drive-bys often don’t give a person time to see.

I was immediately greeted by the big flapping dark wings of rugs posted out on the sidewalk for sale. There were rugs and blankets, hung on huge versions of newspaper racks. They waved me over, inviting inspection. Tigers and pandas waited to pounce out at me from this jungle of plush pile fabric. Some of the blankets were also imprinted with race cars and superheroes like Spiderman that zoomed out as I riffled through the racks. There was a big Justin Bieber looking with plush disinterest off into the distance.

                                                 


The street was lined with discount stores that had arrays of Spanish, Korean, and Indian knick-knacks in their windows. A man was waltzing a floor lamp with a faux Tiffany lampshade out onto the street. A fat Buddha candle-holder beamed out beatifically at me. Seen quickly from a distance, all this might have seemed like a clutter of kitsch. But on foot on the street that sunny spring day, I felt as if I was inside the object chamber of a kaleidoscope, morphing along with the other sparkling shapes and shards, forming new patterns of thought.

Most arresting of all was a line-up of just the lower halves of female mannequins out on the sidewalk. They were covered in brightly colored skin tight jeans and leotards. The mannequin’s derrieres were all plumply facing the public, an army of partial pin-ups. In unconsciously ironic reflection of this theme, there were several fruit carts parked nearby, laden with early peaches, mangoes, and other produce likely from south of the border. Restaurants with dancing tacos painted on their windows were interspersed with the discount shops.
 
      


The whole street was alive with quirky initiative. It all reminded me of the film biographies of American notables such as George Gershwin who grew up in Brooklyn in the early part of the 20th century. Brooklyn then was usually shown as a complex harmony of immigrant energy and enterprise. There were always people calling to each other from fire escape stairways. There were peddlers hawking their wares, pitchmen, con-men, and pick-up artists brassing up every corner. And here it was again, a street that the young Gershwin would have recognized. Except – on this busy commercial street, a staccato Spanish clip predominated rather than Eastern European schmaltz.

That different note of immigrant music was sounded most strikingly as I walked back, off the main street, onto the leafy residential street again. As I passed along, approaching the bridge, I heard it – the clarion call of a rooster. Again and again, the rooster announced itself. It happily reminded me that keeping chickens and roosters had once again been made legal in Chicago, although the ordinance is always in danger of being rescinded.

Once having discovered this walk, I’ve returned along the same route several times since. And always, during either my coming or going, the rooster announces itself from behind some fence. I have never seen it, and I can never quite pin down which house and which fence it’s behind. It has become like the Wizard of Oz, a disembodied oracle whose reality I don’t quite want to expose. I just appreciate its greeting – and walk on.

Have you explored any of your neighboring side streets lately? Have you walked along one of them farther and farther, beyond where you’d ever gone before?

                                         

Thursday, May 15, 2014

The Many Prejudices We Ignore


Most people who consider themselves to be liberal, educated citizens, are sensitive to any kind of prejudice against racial or religious groups. They guard against making any statements themselves that could be considered to fall in those categories, and they are quick to heap opprobrium on anyone they hear mouthing such prejudices. That’s all well and good. But meanwhile, these very same people are often guilty of harboring other forms of prejudice that can be just as destructive of our social fabric. Let me cite an awakening example.

A group of us from “Friends of the Library” had booked a bus tour to different branch libraries. Almost all the people in the group were retired women from more affluent Chicago neighborhoods or suburbs. However there was one somewhat younger person in the group, a demographic rarity in this context for being under retirement age, for being a man, and for being black.

We were all standing around outside the central library, waiting for the rented motor coach to get revved up. One of the more mature ladies in the group, a spruce matron in a neatly tailored suit, approached the black man and cheerily asked him if he was our bus driver. The moment froze. With vast indignation, the man issued a smarting correction. “No, madam,” he adjured. “I’m a member of the library group.”

The women immediately saw how she had been guilty of a terrible faux pas – and worse. She had been guilty of what might be construed as racial profiling and of the basest form of racial prejudice. She’d been guilty of assuming that the one black man in the group must of necessity be there only to perform some task regarded as being manual labor. A pall was cast over the day’s adventures for all of us who had been within earshot of this social blunder.

And yet, and yet – when I thought about it, it seemed to me that the man was more guilty of prejudice than the woman. Why did the suggestion that he was a bus driver affront him so much? Well yes, there might have been some legitimacy to his taking exception to the stereotyping of black men as laborers. But his indignation went beyond any such abstract historical considerations. He just did not want to be taken for a mere blue collar worker. It was obvious that he considered such work beneath him. He viewed himself as being a person with literary interests. He was an intellectual far removed from working stiffs who drove busses or wielded jackhammers and whom he no doubt automatically considered to be too dumb to appreciate any of the “finer” things in life.

But isn’t that sort of attitude as unworthy a prejudice as some of the other prejudices that we more often revile? There is perhaps something understandable about a black man taking that attitude. Black people were for so long generally confined to jobs involving hard labor, that now they want to distance themselves as much as possible from any such association. But white people feel the same way. Any banker, whether white or black, would likely be insulted to be taken for the janitor in his bank. But why? If it’s wrong to assume that anyone who is black has less worth than anyone who is white – why is it right to assume that anyone who is a bus driver has less worth than anyone who is a library patron? That sort of dismissal of bus drivers seems to be part of a larger class prejudice that lingers in this society and that is all the more pernicious because it is so widely held and even so socially acceptable.

There’s a similarly ubiquitous prejudice that virtually no one objects to. Men predictably want to dissociate themselves from anything feminine, because for them, femininity is a lesser state. In another essay on this Blog, I wrote how disappointed I was that President Obama spurned certain breeds of dogs because they were too “girlie.” If he had spurned some breed of dog because it was traditionally associated with African-Americans and if he had expressed that opinion by using some belittling term for young African-Americans – it’s likely his right to continue in the Presidential office would have been called into question. If he had said, “Oh yuck no! Not THAT kind of dog. That’s too pickaninny!” – there might even have been a call for his impeachment. But since his slur was only against women, everyone, including his wife sitting next to him, just chuckled indulgently.

This kind of devaluing of women is so widespread in our society and in most societies, that it’s part of the very air we breathe. Men routinely make a show of shunning anything pink, anything frilly, anything decorative, anything at all typically associated with women, because they consider it beneath them and because it would indeed make them the target of merciless ribbing and derision. But again, imagine replacing that display of aversion with an aversion to anything stereotypically associated with black people. By making that substitution, the level of prejudice inherent in the attitude becomes apparent.

Imagine a man refusing to eat collard greens because they’ve been associated with black people. “Oh no! I won’t eat THAT! That’s what black people eat!” If a man made such a remark, and if he were a public figure – the uproar against him would be immediate and massive. The man might be called to resign whatever post he held and he would be made to make a series of abject, tearful apologies. But when his aversion is only towards things associated with women, everyone smiles, colludes with, and even encourages, his repelling fervor. “Yeah man, you definitely gotta toss that apron!”

This sort of prejudice against women is so pervasive that it calls for treatment in a series of separate essays. Where is Gloria Steinem when we need her the most? For now though, it’s enough to note that there is widespread prejudice against members of the working class and against women, and against all kinds of people regarded as being unattractive. It’s OK to be vocally prejudiced against all these groups. Everyone feels free to voice these prejudices, knowing there will be no repercussions, only general understanding and endorsement.

But going even beyond these specific unacknowledged prejudices, there’s a still more encompassing prejudice that’s so embedded in the way we think that it’s virtually invisible and untouchable. I was brought up short and made to realize I harbored just such a prejudice by a particularly revolutionary remark that someone made to me. We were walking along near the University of Chicago when we passed a white couple who veering off to a parked car. The man leaned in to ominously warn the woman, “Lock all the car doors as soon as you get in, honey. There are lots of blacks around here.”

When my companion and I had passed beyond earshot of this other, so clearly benighted and stupid couple, I voiced my opinion of them. “Well, there are two I’d like to lock my doors against!” I sneered.

My companion looked at me with an admonishing twinkle in his eye and said, “Well, they’re good for something at least. They gave you a chance to feel superior.”

There it was! The word has become a cliché, but it’s the only one I can think of to describe what I had. The word is “epiphany.” Yes, I had felt superior to that couple. I’d felt a sweet little surge of “Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah. I’m better than you!” in the wake of the man’s remark. And isn’t that at the base of a lot of our vociferous condemnation of those who express any kind of politically incorrect sentiment? We are secretly glad of their infraction because it gives us a chance to feel so superior to them, and to demonstrate that superiority by denouncing them.

That’s the very definition of prejudice. It’s a reflex feeling of spurning superiority towards someone, not because of who they are in the fullness of their being, but because of some single stamped characteristic they exhibit, which is often a characteristic they’ve had little or no control over acquiring.

I don’t mean that we should condone racism or any of the other forms of prejudice to which our society is sensitive. But at the same time, we should recognize that there is an overarching, unacknowledged prejudice that might be operative in the very eagerness with which we dismiss others for their infractions. If all we do is make another’s person’s remark the occasion for us to gloat in superiority over them, then we are exhibiting the very kind of prejudice that we are ostensibly fighting. We’re using another person simply as a means of boosting our own egos by making a show of our rejection. Giving ourselves a satisfying fillip of superiority won’t do much do eradicate the other person’s prejudice, while at the same time it merely entrenches us in a more encrypted prejudice of our own.

This is all the more true because our allowance of prejudiced remarks is so unequally distributed. We applaud black rappers for saying the kinds of things that would cause us to permanently banish white suburbanites forever from our social circle. Black rappers are given free rein to make violently prejudiced remarks against women, against whites, against other blacks. Issuing from them, the remarks are considered artistic expression, or a commentary on their mean streets upbringing, or a complicated product of their history as members of a certain race.

But a white person making comparable remarks is given no such dispensation. We don’t stop to consider that they too might be products of very compromising environments. A good ol’ boy acquaintance of mine who’d been helping me with household repairs happened to drop in on a charity luncheon I was giving at my house. He was a fish out of water from the start, but then, in response to a strained attempt on the part of one of the other luncheon guests to reach out to him with a question about his work – he responded, sort of sheepishly abashed by this alien attention. He said that he did “a black man’s work, toting stuff, working off the strength of his back.”

That broke it. The society lady walked out of my house in high dudgeon. She called me the next day and said she would not tolerate that obvious kind of racial prejudice. She wondered why on earth I associated with such a person and she intimated that she had doubts about ever again visiting the home of anyone who did associate with such people.

Well, there was a lot wrong with that whole round-about of prejudice. While my handyman’s remark showed a habit of making a separate class out of blacks – the charity matron’s reaction showed an equal habit of making a special class out of rural whites. (Actually, the handyman was half Native American. If the society matron had known that, would she have taken a more lenient attitude towards him? Would status as a Native American, like the status of black rap artist, have been enough to have given him allowance to make prejudiced comments?) But in any case, as much as the handyman had demonstrated a habit of putting blacks in their place – the society matron showed a parallel habit of putting poor southern whites in their place, a place that she’d enforce as being distinctively separate from any place she ever occupied. I suspect that society matron, although she was white, would have also been offended if anyone had taken her for a maid in my household – showing how much she considered maids to be beneath her.

I knew the handyman better than just that one remark of his. I knew a little more of his context. He told me how growing up in the Carolinas sixty years previously, the adults in his family had instructed him in the social mores of the place. They had told him that he was always to address white people as “Mr. And Mrs …..,” but that he should address black people by their first names only. He had been the child of his father’s second marriage. When his father’s first wife had died at the age of twenty-one, after having given birth to the couple’s third child – his father had married a fourteen-year-old Cherokee woman although she didn’t reveal her Cherokee ancestry until years later because she was deeply ashamed of her non-White status. She promptly started to have children, one of whom was the handyman.

The handyman spoke highly of his father, mostly because his father had tried to bring him and his siblings up strictly according to the Bible. When his father had caught him and his brother playing during the time they should have been reading the Bible, the man had taken them out behind the barn and beaten them to a fare-thee-well with a chain. His younger brother had received a bad head injury in the process and had always been a little “slow” after that. But still the handyman respected his father for making such valiant efforts to set them on the straight and narrow. Later on, his sister had tried to poison their father because he was always “messing” with her. But the handyman thought his sister’s reaction had been extreme. He said all the fathers he knew back then had been likely to “mess with their daughters.” It was just the way of things.

Talk about mean streets! If black rappers have the right to make vicious, prejudiced remarks because of the hard way they and their people have come – it would seem my handyman might also qualify for such dispensation. But the point is certainly not to fight for the right to make prejudiced remarks. The point is that not all the prejudice we need to fight against is the kind of prejudice that has been so roundly defined and targeted over the last decades. When civil rights leaders say that we still have a long way to go in conquering prejudice – they’re right. But there’s a lot of prejudice that few people have even begun to recognize, much less started to address in their lamentations.

Again, the goal should not be to condone any sort of prejudice against minorities, but neither should our goal be to simply assume a high-and-mighty sense of superiority over someone who is struggling against ignorance and a bleak family background. If we judge people based on one snippet we hear issue from them, we do the very thing we inveigh against. If we in effect say to them, “Step off the sidewalk when I walk by. I, in all my glory, am superior and have the right-of-way,” we are hardly better than the many prejudiced white people who have come to symbolize southern society in the 1930’s. We are in effect becoming our own sort of clansmen.

Rather than immediately putting anyone in his place because of an errant remark or because of a perceived lifestyle that we reflexively dislike, we should strive to know that person more fully. Whether that person is black, white, a woman, Jewish, fat, gay, old, a teenager, a prostitute, a maid, a redneck, a Wall Street broker, or a bus driver – we shouldn’t give ourselves a cheap shot of self-satisfaction with a display of disapproval and distancing. Rather we should eagerly approach that person with a sense that a new adventure in knowing the human spirit awaits us.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

A Different Kind of Moving Day


Spring and fall I face a different sort of moving day than others who might just be changing apartments or migrating to and from summer vacation spots. I face the more difficult job of relocating a giant lemon tree. Since I live in Chicago, the tree has to come inside during the winter where I place it near my front plate glass window. By spring, the tree is usually suffering from the stress of cabin fever and has to be moved back out into my yard.

This started as an easy enough routine. The tree was given to me as a 6-inch sprout that a friend grew from the seed of an everyday grocery store lemon. My friend was eager that I take good care of his one green thumb accomplishment. Every time he visited, he would inspect its progress. Under this kind of scrutiny, and also because of what is just my natural aversion to wasting anything or letting anything go – I perhaps tended the tree too diligently.

It grew and grew. And grew. Over the years, it became a 15-foot behemoth. I replanted it in a large city dumpster on wheels. Despite the wheels, it became a major project to escort it through its migrations. I luckily have cathedral ceilings, but the tree still had to be canted inside to accommodate its height. Then getting it in and out of doors was a dangerous operation that had to be carefully choreographed.

I couldn’t simply roll it along the length of my building from the front door and out the back into the garden. With its long bayonet thorns, that would have involved too much strafing of ceiling light fixtures and furniture along the route. The only logical way to move it was to take it out the nearest front door and walk it around the block to my back gate. But it was so heavy, I usually had to hire movers to help me.

Fifteen years of this exercise left me thoroughly put out with that “friend” who had visited this chore on me. And for all my trouble, the tree still showed not the slightest sign of producing a lemon. I finally felt I just couldn’t do it any longer. I made the wrenching decision to abandon the tree. Late that summer, I didn’t roll it indoors as usual. I rolled it out into the alley and abandoned it to its fate. I hoped some salvage man who had connections with a solarium or a conservatory somewhere would pick it up. But no such luck.

It languished out there. Then one morning I made the heart-rending discovery that in the night, someone had brutally uprooted it from the dumpster, heaved it aside, and made off with the dumpster. That was such a waste, because the dumpster could hardly have been of much use. I had drilled holes in the bottom of it to give the tree drainage.

So there the tree lay, a fallen soldier, victim of my war with my weariness. Its broken, mangled form rolled around from one side of the alley to the other. Occasionally, I would haul it out of the way of traffic and bank it back against my fence. But soon enough, it would tumbleweed down to the apron of some other property, its abject sear skeleton a constant rebuke to me. Its remains lingered for almost a year that way. Its main trunk looked like the desiccated mast of some Flying Dutchman appearing here and there, spiking through the effluvia of this industrial alley, haunting all my comings and goings.

This is hardly the end of the story though. I hadn’t been able to part with the tree without keeping some souvenir of it. I’d taken a cutting and put it in water. Miraculously, the cutting had grown roots. That usually doesn’t work, or it only works according to some complicated horticultural formula that I’ve never quite understood. But this offshoot produced enough of a root system to encourage me to in turn pot it – and in due course replant it into an industrial size garbage pail on wheels. So here we are again.

More years have passed, and once again I have a skyscraper lemon tree. The sight of its mother so tragically dying out in the alley has made me determined never to abandon a lemon tree again. I know I will stick by this baby – forever. What’s more, this hasn’t been in vain. The offshoot apparently had some genetic memory of the developmental phases its mother went through, and has picked up where she left off. In just a few years, after it had grown to about 10-feet, it started to produce blossoms – and then lemons. The lemons take a long time to ripen on the branches. Some are on there almost a year before they can be picked, and even then they have thick skins. But they are tangy lemons – fresh off the tree. They provide a valuable present come birthdays, Christmases. I can impress recipients with the value of my offering, telling them that the individual lemon I’m bestowing on them cost me about a thousand dollars, considering the moving costs and the daily fertilizing, watering, tending.

The tree’s readiness to produce actual lemons has inspired me to service it in yet another way. Now as soon as I see blossoms on it, I go around with a feather duster and tickle, tickle, tickle, from flower to flower, transferring pollen betwixt and between. I had heard about and even once seen ticklers in the fields - people supplementing the work of bees by cross-pollinating between blossoms since often the pistil of one blossom won’t be ready to receive the pollen from the stamen of the same flower. The organs of different blooms come ready at different times. I had thought that to be a rather rarified occupation, little suspecting that I would one day enter the ranks of ticklers myself.
 
 

I no longer have to hire outside help to move this progeny plant though. I rent a room to a neighborhood man, so now I have a helper handy to make the big haul around the block. Since this “baby” has itself grown to a bushy 12-feet though, my renter had to call on some barroom buddies to help him with the move the other day. The lads were already well lubricated when they attempted the move, so it got to be the occasion for a carefree careening, a bouncing from pillar to post along the side street and into the alley. It was risky business angling the tree out the front door and under a neighbor’s awning. My renter had attached a long rope to it to give him better leverage pulling it along on its wheels. This makeshift leash notwithstanding, the crew lost control of their charge more than once and the tree veered violently into a wall or some other upright. But the joviality of the moment readily loosened the tree from whatever entrapment it encountered, just as the men’s wits and limbs had already been loosened by whatever brew they’d imbibed.

We lost a few more unripe lemons than I would have liked, and a few more branches got snapped. But on the whole, the tree didn’t suffer too much damage. As I stood at the back gate, I rejoiced to see my renter rounding the bend from the side street. As he pulled his recalcitrant bulk along, it attempted to make one last foray to the side, scouring the margins of the alley. But then it was in the clear, heading for its home stretch into my garden.

Just then, a woman walking her dog on a leash came from the other direction. My renter and the woman recognized they were on kindred errands. As they passed each other, my renter cheerily observed, “You walk yours, and I’ll walk mine.” And that’s probably about as good a motto for life as I’ve heard.