IMO: Bodily Fluids are Funny

Mike was a student  athlete of mine. His father was a pilot and encouraged his son to obtain his own pilot’s license. During his four years of high school, Mike racked up his hours in the sky. I admired him for tackling the challenge in addition to being the star of two sports teams and maintaining a high grade point average. A couple years after his graduation, he reappeared as my student at the community college where I worked as an adjunct instructor.. Pleased to see him and pleased to hear he was becoming a cop, it was summer in Illinois, hot and muggy, and I asked him if he flew, and he happily informed me he had his license and flew regularly.

“Ms. Bruchman, you should let me take you flying.”

I arranged to meet him after lunch at the regional airport. Along the way, I stopped for a bite to eat–onion rings with horseradish sauce. At one, he proudly opened the door to the cockpit, and I climbed into the small space about the size of the interior of my car. It was loud and hot in there, as we ascended and zoomed around the valley, the corn fields in tight rows, the Illinois River serpentine, and my smile constant.

“So, Mike, what did you have to do to get your license?”

With a mischievous smile, he dipped his wing to the left and leveled. Then he did the same with the right. “And I had to do this one, too,” and that’s when he dropped the plane. He steadied it and laughed at my expression, but I had the last laugh.

     Oh, no! I looked for a paper bag. A plastic bag. A container of some kind. “Mike, I’m going to be sick. Please, what do I do?”

“Okay, I’ll take you back. Hold on!” The sweat dripped and my stomach flipped. I projectile-vomited the onion rings in horseradish sauce over the windshield of the cockpit and down the front of my peach colored dress. We had to sit in it for fifteen minutes while he returned to the airport and requested to land.

When the propellers came to a stop, and he had turned off the switches, Mike rushed around and opened the door for me. He looked at me and the chunks that speckled the interior and said gently, “Go home and rest; I’ll clean it up.” I was so embarrassed I couldn’t say anything. I had to walk through the hangar past a gauntlet of people who pretended to ignore me. When I got to my car, I couldn’t stop laughing. A decade passed, and I ran into Mike at a local bar who gave me a bear hug, and we shared a beer and had a good laugh.


What’s my one memorable Thanksgiving? The one where my grown children and their kids had gathered at my house and in the span of six hours, five of us were struck with the flu. People were racing to every toilet and retching in the bathtubs. It was quite the sight and strikes me funny now, the sounds of people puking and the bodily fluids flushed and cleaned away.


A flamboyant friend, Lisa, was in the middle of sharing a crazy story in her small office one morning. A deranged man suddenly stumbled into her office trying to find a bathroom. He had shat himself; and she pointed, shocked, to her bathroom. He locked the door and painted the walls. Authorities were called, the poor man escorted away, and Lisa retched uncontrollably and begged me, crying, to clean it up. It was a long morning. She still owes me, fifteen years later.

Why should the gross parts of being human bring about a laugh? Perverse!

IMO: Turning 100


Today was the annual visit for students of mine who are members of Interact Club (Rotary International) to head over to our local nursing home and deliver presents to residents who would otherwise have no family members visiting or likely receive gifts on Christmas.


We receive the wishlist for fifteen patients, take an afternoon to buy them sweatpants, blankets, books, chocolates, art supplies and wrap them on the last day of school before winter break. Our club members respond warmly to the vis-à-vis exchange. Every year, for me, there is a resident who stands out and makes me think about life and the secret behind having a good one. I know it will happen; it’s divine intervention. The revelation has me thinking of George Bailey from the iconic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, and the life imitating art moment affects me.    


Mr. Bouffard recently turned 100. He is well liked by the nurses and staff because he is a cheery man.


Over the summer, he was honored by the mayor and honor guard for serving in WWII. A book was written chronicling his time, and what his band of brothers did. It sits along with his dog tags in a cupboard. All will be donated to the local historical society when he passes.

Armand had me imagining him at age twenty-five. His life was ahead of him; each decade brought challenges, joys, and tragedy. Think of the experiences one gathers up over a lifetime. Here was a man with wisdom. What could he share? This man with ancient skin, a crinkled face, and watery eyes? He, a fragile shell who was once a soldier, a son, a husband, and a father? Now at age 100, he is alone, yet he still smiles. Days go by slowly, but the weeks fly by, and the years even faster. Such is life.

I have a cynical attitude about reaching 100. I look at Armand and wonder how he still smiles? After all, he is alone and not in his home. Who is left to share his life? Not his spouse. No children. No friends. How could anyone want to live to be 100?

What you have is yourself.

Armand gave himself for 100 years. He took chances and loved. He took chances and failed. He did what he was supposed to and a little of what he shouldn’t. At 100, he crossed the line, broke the ribbon, and won the game of life. I would like to believe for what mistakes he made he owned and apologized. If he didn’t, I hope he forgave himself for being human.

Armand Bouffard’s secret? He is proud of himself. He is attended to by compassionate caregivers who do their best to make sure he is comfortable in his final days. He sucks on candy, scoots around in his wheelchair, and says hello to everyone who passes by. He owns nothing but his smile, and it gives me courage. If I make it to 100, I want to feel proud that I caused more joy than pain. I want to wear Armand’s smile like a medal on my chest.

Happy Holidays!


IMO: Baby Talk and the Passage of Time

Fellow blogger, South African/Londoner,  ABBI O,  chronicled her thoughts of pregnancy; when “Little O” was born, Abbi continued her posts about the life-change, documenting her thoughts of motherhood and the demands of her now five-month-old son. Not only does her dry wit make me laugh, she makes me think about the passage of time. Her journal-in-the-making is a clever idea. I imagine Little O when he’s older and turns into Bigger O asking her what it was like to carry him inside her body? To have him? What was he like as a boy? She has gathered her posts and self-published them. She tosses her book to Bigger O and says, “Read all about it.” When Abbi is much older, she will toss the book to her pregnant daughter-in-law, and assure her the fear is universal, the experience is awesome, she understands, and it will bring comfort. When Abbi is ancient, she will revisit herself in words, that worried young woman from her past, and smile at her and feel pride that she muddled through it all miraculously just fine. She’ll look across the room at Biggest O, who is now a father himself, and wonder how time flew by.

Based on a diary, 1785–1812, professor Laurel Thatcher Ulrich investigated the entries of a midwife, Martha Ballard. It’s an interesting account because, in the center of a Maine community, she literally touched the lives of everyone in it and provided a glimpse of the values and expectations of gender, the struggle to fight the seasons, impartial diseases, techniques for perseverance, and the cycle of life through births and deaths. It is a rare, profound historical portrait. And yet, at the time of her writing, Martha Ballard was unaware her diary entries would become important one day. Her “voice” varied depending on time and tiredness. Martha was at times insightful, other times clinical, like her profession as she weaved in and out of households aiding the sick. Recommended. 4/5.

In my opinion, Abbi is creating a historical portrait, a primary source. Fifty years from now, a hundred years–two–social historians could look to her blog or self-published book about motherhood and life from 2016 onward from a historical perspective. I read about an abolitionist the other day whose date of birth matched my own, minus a hundred years. She was born in 1863 and lived until 1951. Can you imagine all that she saw? How much the world changed? From the death of Abraham Lincoln through World War II? From buggies to rocket ships? From the telegraph to the television? I wonder what life will be like if I made it until 2051. Just saying the date makes me shake my head in wonder.

Here is the passage of time illustrated by my granddaughter, Amelia. She’ll be four in February.

Where did the time fly? 

Five Shots: Aquarian Adventure



In Phoenix, the new OdySea Aquarium opened this past weekend, so my granddaughter and I spent two hours admiring the fish from around the world which somehow seemed more interesting when you live in the desert. Darned fish wouldn’t hold still, but to the creatures that would, I thought I would share a few.

Bathroom sinks have a view of the shark tank.
Bathroom sinks have a view of the shark tank.
Gold Piranha
Gold Piranha
Mom and baby California Moray
Mom and baby California Moray
Sea Horses sit still for pictures. Whew!
Sea Horses sit still for pictures. Whew!
Sharks do not pose for pictures.
Sharks do not pose for pictures.
Only a foot away. Yikes.
Only a foot away. Yikes.
Taking pictures of the Gars and Paddle Fish
Taking pictures of the Gars and Paddle Fish
Alaskan King Crabs
Alaskan King Crabs
Blue Crabs
Blue Crabs
Tiger Fish
Tiger Fish
Great Barrier Reef fish
Great Barrier Reef fish
Remember when you saw the world this way?
Remember when you saw the world this way?

Don and The Korean War

Korean War
Korean War 1950-1953

Donald E. Cork joined the US NAVY in 1950 three weeks after his high school graduation to get out of his cramped home and to see the world. After boot camp at Great Lakes, Chicago, he was sent to Bayonne, New Jersey for Storekeeper school and then assigned to the USS Columbus.


The Korean War was in progress, and there was a need for volunteers to learn survival skills and become a UDT for Top Secret missions. The Underwater Demolition Team was a predecessor for the Navy Seals. At nineteen, Don was that stereotypical Irishman with black hair and giant blue eyes, full of laughter and thirsty for a beer. He said, “Why not?” and was reassigned to a Georgia base, where he waded with the swamp alligators and learned how to stay alive with a knife and a nonchalant attitude. After six weeks, he rejoined the USS Columbus in the Yellow Sea. The missions involved a submarine dropping him a mile away from shore above the 38th parallel. He relinquished his dog tags, and teams of three swam to shore. At the Yalu River, they hid on hilltops and radioed the ship of approaching Chinese troops. They had three days to return to the exact spot in the water, or the submarine would leave them behind. The survival rate was 10 percent. Don survived eight missions until he became ill with tuberculosis and was honorably discharged. He laid in a stateside hospital for fourteen months. Fed up with living in a hospital bed, he walked out and returned to Illinois where he spent the rest of his working days as a postal worker. He married my mother in 1979 when I was a junior in high school. Their marriage was happy and lasted 37 years.

These facts are true about Don, but it shows little about what kind of man Don was. He wasn’t one to talk about the war unless someone asked him about it. He would laugh and tell about what mischief he had gotten himself into (He was demoted for insulting a superior officer more than once.) with his buddies and team members.

Don, second from left
Don, second from left

The Vietnam War superseded the Korean Conflict followed by Desert Storm and the Iraq War. While these events happened, Don managed the postal store books, planted his garden, and reinvented spaces in the house for Mom. He hunted wild mushrooms and asparagus, and taught his grandchildren how to fish.

Don and Mom at their wedding, 1979

While the wars were fought, children and grandchildren grew up, grew away, and got old themselves.  For a man who never asked for attention, the spotlight of his recent death had multi-generations talking about “Grandpa”. Upon hearing of Grandpa’s mission impossibles, my thirty year old son’s mouth dropped in amazement.

He asked me, “How come I never knew about this?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Don died a few weeks ago in his home after a hard year struggling to breathe. When I think about him, I have wondered how he would like to be remembered. It was not the Top Secret clearance or the Cold War shenanigans that made him proud. In their corner of the neighborhood, it was his life with Mom, where the gardens grew and the birds found refuge where he was the hero.

“You didn’t ask, son. But I should have told you.”


Anything you ever would want to know about the Korean War can be found at



Siblings. I don’t remember if we have ever been close. We’re all in our late forties and early fifties. Some years, we’ve hardly tolerated one another. For what reason? The birth order? The first of four, I was the bossy one and resented having to watch the three of them. To me growing up, my little sister was a whining princess who had dodged curfews and chores while I did them all. She had complained she resented going through school being compared to me, so she rebelled. When I graduated high school and joined the Navy, I rarely thought about her. We just parted ways. The same can be said for my brothers. I was the tomboy who didn’t want dolls. I climbed trees, shot marbles, rode my bike everywhere, sharpened swords from tree branches and defended my fort. When I left home for good, all I felt was good riddance. No one wrote me letters or called. Neither did I.

My siblings and Mom. I'm the one wearing the scarf.
I’m the one wearing the scarf.

As time passed, we took turns and married, had kids, and divorced. There was the occasional snappy remark instilling resentment or the full-frontal, verbal attack which fostered hatred. Personal friends became my sisters. My brothers had their own adventures and weren’t prone to discussing their feelings or sharing their goals or troubles. It was none of my business. As adults, we gathered at Mom’s house for the holiday get-together and were cautioned to “be civil or leave.” As I’ve grown older, it bothers me we aren’t close. But how do you change life long perceptions or soften a hard wood?


Of the four of us, we would all agree my brother in the front seat next to the oranges and my sister standing behind him have never seen eye-to-eye. The other day when we tried to bond, she confessed she felt compelled to find the one toy my brother was obsessed with as a boy and surprise him.

For twenty years, my sister has looked to find them. We all remember my brother sticking his tortured pirates with pins and the sound effects he would make. How ironic that she found them on E-Bay and paid a hefty price for these plastic guys that were once bought with a quarter from a five-and-dime forty years ago.


Wouldn’t you know, my brother laughed and teared up with joy when he saw them? He stood up and gave my sister a hug and thanked her with great sincerity. We all started tearing up. How ironic that his least favorite sibling was the one who made the effort to please him. If those two could get along, maybe hard wood can soften. Maybe there’s still time for relaxed conversations. For compassion. For laughter. Maybe!

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