The Fountain

I wonder if the fountain knows,
that which transpired days ago:

Ants marched its perimeter of moss covered stone;
Chickens sipped from its water drip;
Algae thrived in the pool below;
And a girl slipped when stepping on its concrete lip.

I wonder if the fountain knows,
the solace that it now bestows:

The sound she hears from its water flow;
The sense of wet from a stray droplet;
Her finger skimmed its reservoir;
As she lay on its ledge and let her mind forget.

Waiting In The Pits

One morning while out tending to her AM chores, Maria ran back to the house crying “The sheep! The sheep!”

Maria had been feeding the animals when she caught sight of an inverted sheep, head buried in the hay and feet in the air (classic dead-bug or happy-baby yoga pose; but in this case, closer to the bug.) Poor girl, she couldn’t stand.

Iris re-inverted the ewe and tried to place the animal on her feet. Given that our genus Homo are not proficient communicators with her genus Ovis, we can only assume what might have occurred: perhaps she’s pregnant and simply toppled over.

The sheep is back on all four and today we wait to see, under that winter fleece, a new baby lamb.

--

This morning while out tending to my wound during the 4th hospital visit, I was crying “My leg. My leg.”

I had been obeying orders, resting, taking medicine, lying on my back with my foot in the air (half a happy-baby pose) but still, poor girl, I cannot stand.

The doctor tried the possibility of removing the sutures, however, the skin had not reconnected. Since my reasoning mind is not a proficient communicator with the autonomic activity of epidermal healing, we can only assume what might have occurred: perhaps I simply have a very nasty slash from when I toppled over.

One day I’ll be back on all two while today I wait to see (under that winter fleece), a new layer of skin.

--

Addendum:
I believe there is a higher intelligence that conducts the creation of babies, the change in seasons, the flight of birds, and the walk of man. With such a complicated symphony, I’m glad to be sitting in the orchestra pits; I’ll wait for my cue should I need to start.

Operation SEED

After days of being off duty, I was thrilled by the prospect of a fanny-friendly post at the offsite warehouse where seeding of this year’s medicinal herbs is underway. (Maria and I refer to the facility as a Soviet Stockroom per training in recognizing such warehouses on 007 tutorials.)

The centerpiece of the warehouse is the large red Seeder (perfect for concealing a Russian bomb), Circa MCMLXXXVIII. We arrive as Aldo controls the machinery propagating 440 nursery trays with Echinacea Palida. For seeding that is not processed by the automated seeder, the operation calls for a human seeder, AKA me.

Iris demonstrates on Artemisia Absinthium (code name ARAB) how to manually sow the cells of a nursery tray. With a tap to the envelope containing the seeds, she summons exactly 3 ARAB seeds onto the soil of the desired cell, moves the envelope to the next cell, taps and repeats.

A single Artemisia Absinthium seed is smaller than the dirt found under my pinky nail; it is also the same shade, i.e. brown. On my first attempt at summoning three ARAB seeds with a tap, I offloaded an unknown number of seeds (not three) into an unknown number of cells (not one); searching for lost suspects was also disappointing on account of their camouflage coloring. Subsequent tapping attempts were no better.

But I persevered and utilized a handy gadget found on the top of the Department issued Bic pen. My method of seed deployment is as follows: sprinkle seeds into the palm of left hand; obtain Bic pen in right hand; use Bic pen top to precisely scoop desired seed count from left hand onto Bic pen top shaft (the little plastic protrusion that people chew on or use to scratch an itch in the inner ear canal (hopefully not both)); transfer seeds via Bic pen top shaft into appropriate nursery tray cell.

After inseminating 160 cells of 34 trays with Achorium Intybus (ACIN), Verbascum Densiflorium (VEDE), and various other seeds - I became a certified seeder. I was ready for the next mission:

Successfully manage Soviet Stockroom’s Turkish Toilet with one leg and two crutches.
(I pity the next visiting toilet victim.)

Bedside Manners

Less than a week after my emergency, I find myself back in Emergency. The Italian male nurse recognizes me with a friendly wave, a huge smile and a warm “Ciao!” He summons the on-call Doctor Detta who was expecting me for the second follow-up appointment (in the ER notwithstanding).

The male nurse inquires if my previous ER companion (referring to 16 year old Maria) is my younger sister; apparently, we look similar.

Allow me a break in the proceedings to interject a visual: my complexion is pale and dry (from lack of circulation); my eye-sockets are hallow (from lack of sleep); my hair is greasy (from lack of bathing); one half of one leg is shaven (from a trim by said male nurse); my right eyeball is blood-hemorrhaged (from the blood thinning medicine); and with how I feel, let’s just say, not a youthful early 40's much less a spring-chicken.

I can therefore deduce with confidence that my fledgling companion and I are not akin to sisters. Never mind, I took the compliment.

Doctor Detta prescribes more antibiotics, cleansing solution, and gauze wraps for my laceration; eye drops for my right eye; and bacterial cultures for my stomach. I’m to see her again, in the ER, in four days time.

After she departs, the male nurse personally supplies me up with my prescription – so I wouldn’t have to buy it in the Farmacia – and expresses his sorrow at not working ER in four days. I took the compliment.

And with another friendly wave, huge smile and warm “Ciao!” he went off to cheer the next patient.

--

“Did you happen to catch the name of the attentive male nurse?” I ask sweet Leonora on our ride back from town.

“Yes. It’s Fabio.”

I knew it.

Ready

Italy is quick and ready!

One of the more commonly heard words in the Italian dialog is “pronto”.

Pocket Oxford Italian Dictionary ©2006 Oxford University Press:
ˡpronto adjective ready; (rapido) quick;

When you answer the telephone to say “Hello”, you say “Pronto”.
When you announce a meal by yelling “Dinner!”, you yell “Pronto”.
When you have an emergency and are looking for the ER, you seek “Pronto Soccorso”.
When you need transportation, you ride the “Pronto Bus”.
When you need birth-control, you reach for the “Pronto Condom”.
When you are hungry, you eat “Pronto Pizza”.
When you are still hungry, you eat “Pronto Pasta”.


“Pronto” is also used in the context of “Good and ready”, “Ready and willing”, and “Armed and ready.”

“Ready! Set! Go!” is “Pronti! Via!”

To encourage speed, you might exclaim "Pronto!"

And, to question preparedness, you might simply inquire “Pronto?”

But of all the prontos, there’s nothing like the sound of “Pronto!” at noon on a Friday. The outdoor wood-burning stone oven, sizzling for Bread-Day, hosts our lunch. On a warm day, we eat outside. I can smell the homemade crust even before I see it encircling the steamy center of our pizza deluxe: farm grown tomatoes, smoked mozzarella cheese, scattering of anchovies and garlic, and an assortment of meats and veggies.

I am ready!

Taking Inventory

Back in BC days (Before Crutches), Maria and I were asked to take inventory at the offsite greenhouses of various nursery related items necessary for a fruitful season of produce. While counting hundreds seedling pallets and fertilizer bags, I thought how wise it would be to perform such an inventory on life related items necessary for a fruitful existence of being. I never got off my behind to give my lofty idea the requisite time.

Now in AD days (After the Ding), I’m predominately sitting on my behind; auspiciously, I don’t need to get up and find I have an abundance of time to give the lofty idea. The list created is as follows:


• Time and energy spent with family and friends
• Time and devotion spent in spiritual pursuit
• Time and love spent alone with self
• Time and sustenance spent taking nutrition
• Time and exercise spent securing health
• Time and joy spent recreating
• Time and labor spent working, learning, growing
• Time and rest spent relaxing, recuperating

And finally,

• Time and consciousness spent taking inventory (I’d like to think I can do this in the absence of future dings)

--

I’m starting my count.

Pain In The Butt

“How’s your leg?” Iris translates for Doctor Detta during my follow-up visit.

“It’s okay” I reply, “but my butt is killing me!”

For three days now, I’ve been shooting Ceftriaxone in my derriere. Apparently, I’ve been doing it wrong. This concerns Doctor Detta who is wearing a bright orange ambulance jumpsuit that I admire. I’m asked to pull my pants down as she carefully examines my bruised and swollen tush.

Happily, I receive instruction on which butt quadrant to take the injection, how to correctly withdraw and mix the diluents with the solutions preventing contamination, how to release residual air from the syringe and how to employ rapido speed of entry for optimal hypodermic needle piercing. (Useful information I’ll freely dispense to any would-be antibiotic junkie).

There is a slight infection in my wound. Iris picks up the prescription for additional Ceftriaxone at the Farmacia. (Which, as a side note, she had placed in her name so I wouldn’t have to pay the out-of-pocket expenses. Grazie mille!) My doctor warns me of possible side-effects including vaginitis and gastrointestinal diarrhea. (Hoorah for symmetry: front and back.)

Once more in bed with my leg propped up on the four pillows, I quickly reach for the OPO crutches. It’s the second side-effect! Maria is proud of her English funny:

“Ha ha! You’ve got the runs and you can’t run!”

I burst out laughing and make a mental note not to share updates should I get side-effect number one.