Pipe dreams

I have a rather unusual childhood memory that stands out for me.   It may sound rather odd for a kid (specially a girl), but for me, it was so cool.

My dad was an organist in the Congregational church for many, many years.  Now I’m not talking about those dinky electronic organs.  I’m talking about the real thing, with pipes, pedals, push buttons and rows of keyboards.

YEAH!  Those mother’s that give you the goosies, everytime you hit a pedal, and reverberate through your whole body. 

THOSE kinds of organs.

Every so often, it was in need of a little tuning or the odd repair job.  And this is where I came in. 

You see, while he was doing his thing behind those big pipes, someone (a very eager “me”  in this case), had to sit behind the keyboards, and press the necessary foot pedals, or pull out the stops, as he would call out for me to do.

The tools he needed were not your run of the mill tools needed to tune an instrument.  His repair/tuning kit was more like a carpenters toolbox, mixed with some DIY tools.  Power drill, portable lamp, felt, carpet knife, cotton wool, even a chisel, and still many other weird and wonderful goodies essential for the job.  Oh, and let me not forget the portable intercom! (I’m talking about the ‘70s here!). 

The area behind the pipes was so far away from the keyboard, the intercom was the only way he could communicate with me to let me know what to do.

This was exciting!!! (Call me odd, as I was only about 9).  The space behind those pipes was tiny to say the least, and the job entailed my dad navigating narrow gangplanks between the pipes, and hoping beyond hope he wouldn’t lose his balance or fall against the pipes.  It was very dark and dusty back there, so I quite admired the fact that he always knew exactly which pipe needed the fiddling – and then still do his thing in the tiniest of spaces.

But for me, it was magical, and instilled this monstrous sense of power.  Putting your foot down on those pedals, and having this blast of foghorn proportions, pierce the quiet sanctity of the church.  It gave quite a rush, to say the least.  That vibration that resonates off every bone inside your body. WOWWWWWW!!!!!!

I loved every second of it.  Press this pedal, pull that stop.  It was exilirating!  Not to mention using an intercom! (did I say that already?!). And it would always be topped off with my dad playing a piece on it afterwards to see that everything was fixed/tuned correctly.

I have to say, this cemented my love for pipe organs.  There is something incredibly majestic and powerful that cannot be translated into words.  It HAS to be experienced – and at FULL VOLUME!!!!

Sadly today, it seems to be becoming more of a rarity as technology develops.  A pity really.  People wont know what they’re missing out on.  My father was wise enough to write a book (as yet unpublished), on organs and tuning and all the other complex “stuff” that goes with it.  And even though he’s in his 70’s, he’s working on getting it out there.  It’s a dying art, and knowledge like that cannot be lost. 

Awesome times indeed.

Thanks dad. 

Brain-storming

I would never have remotely thought that the likes of Vincent Van Gogh, Napoleon, Alfred Nobel, Joan of Arc, Alexander the Great,  Agatha Christie and Socrates  (to name but a few), shared something in common. But they did.

While many would consider them great figures, hero’s  or legends in their field, I don’t think many would’ve guessed that they also all suffered from epilepsy.

So I’m writing this, in the hope that some people may change their outlook on those who live with it.  And maybe, just maybe, remind others that people with epilepsy are not damaged goods, or kind of “retarded” in some freakish way.

Epilepsy is just a medical condition that is TOTALLY manageable with medication.  It is simply abnormal (I hate that word) electrical activity in the brain.  And while epilepsy may SOMETIMES be the resulting condition brought about by brain injury and/or brain damage from trauma, this doesn’t mean that everyone who sufferes from epilepsy IS brain damaged.

Mine came out of the blue one morning in 1993.  By the time I got to hospital I’d had another 3 seizures. 

The usual barrage of standard tests followed. The MRI, EEG, and lumbar puncture (which wasn’t nearly as painful as I’d heard). 

I was to stay flat on my back after having it done, but there was no way on this blue planet I was going to pee in a bedpan. So I got up.

BAAAAAAD idea.  I thought 20 tons of TNT had gone off in my head.  That’s what you get for trying to be clever.

But, after all the testing, all the results came back normal, except for the EEG. 

And there it was……a seismograph of my brain, showing this big peak in the middle of nowhere.  It was my “brain-quake” (as I like to call it), in black and white.  But this one, they said, was so small, I didn’t even know I’d had it.  They called that small? It looked like a magnitude 7 on the richter scale.

But here I am, 18 years later, and no worse for wear.   My small “brain-quakes” still show on the EEG, but they’re under control.  .  I’ve never had a seizure again, routinely take my meds, and now like to refer to myself as a natural at brainstorming.

So please, don’t stigmatise people with this.  We’re not retarded or freaks.

We’re normal.

In fact, going by history, we’re freakin GREAT, and  we have legends to prove it!

Simply Satine

Animals have issues too.

Example at hand, our cat.  Rescued at 3 weeks old, and adopted by us at 7 weeks.

                                                                 

A real chocolate box kitty, who needed a name…….a unique name. 

We eventually decided on Satine, after the main character in the movie Moulin Rouge, played by Nicole Kidman.

Exquisitely beautiful and with those same spell-binding eyes.

But we soon started noticing “things”. 

Her overwhelming one being – the pools and pools of drool.

A simple rub on the head has her zoning out into salivary oblivion.

As of this moment, she resembles something of an overgrown garden slug, that sleeps belly up - all day and all night. 
Comfort eater.

She's even developed a speed wobble when she runs.

Jumping is simply, NOT. She’ll stand with the telltale aim, bum-wiggle and focus, launch ……… and still miss.

No really, she’s THAT bad.

I cant lie when I say we have to look away and snigger. As any cat slave knows, you never, NEVER  look at a cat and laugh out loud.

So, we now have her on diet.
She’s our speshul girl who’s more than happy to lie on the lawn, eating air and watching the little bugs go by.

Her mental capabilities may be less than stellar, and ok, she’s a little 1’o clock half struck.

And while she’s not perhaps the Nicole Kidman of the feline world, she is simply….Satine.