Category Archives: Dagmar

Auf Deutsch?

Now THAT’S good!

We’ve been completely and utterly inundated by phone calls the last few weeks, all from presidential candidate’s supporters. I mean, seriously, we’re getting a phone call every five minutes now. We’re timing them like contractions to see when the caucuses will end.

For a while my beloved Viennese Snickerdoodle Dagmar was answering the phone, saying “Richardson” and hanging up again without even waiting to see who was calling. “The first question dey ask is alvays ‘do you know who you’re going to support?’ I figger I’ll save them de hassle.”

A few days ago, however, she switched tactics and started answering the phone in German, generally with a happy little yodel tossed in for good measure. Most times the staffer on the other end would simply get frustrated, say something that (hopefully) sounded polite, and hang up. Most times.

A few days ago I heard the now-familiar “Hallo… Nein, Ich spreche keine English. Sprechen Sie Deutsch, bitte?” I smiled to myself, knowing that some poor schmuck on the other end of the line was frantically wondering how to handle this gracefully… Then I heard, “HA! You have MY vote!” Then the conversation continued for a few moments auf Deutsch. A few minutes later she peeked her head around. “Vell, I’ll be darned,” she said. “Richardson’s people speak German!”

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Saturday Morning, Quickly

For the Guv…

Actually, Dagmar’s not a dragon at all. She’s a dragling. If you get time, check out Randal Spangler’s artwork — he has a whole series of Dagmar and Dewey Dragling art. Fun stuff!


Unexpected Gig

Got called last night to go play at the Farmers’ Market again. It’s 8:45 a.m. and raining. They want us to play from 9:30 to noon… I hope it quits raining. Of course, rain goes well with folk rock and blues, I guess. Especially while people are wandering past fondling their melons…

If you’re reading this on Facebook, you can see the original blog at www.radloffs.net, click on “Blog.”
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After the clouds go to bed…

I realized today that I’ve spent most of my life yearning. Sometimes in earnest, sometimes the yearning is set on simmer, but it’s always there. I spent a little time analyzing just what’s causing me such angst…

While everyone certainly wants more moolah and bigger, better, fancier, flashier toys, I’m pretty satisfied with what I have. Dagmar and I will never be rich; to the contrary, I’m reasonably sure we’ll always struggle with debt – but we have food, clothes, a place to call home and a VERY happy marriage… But still I have this strange yearning. Why? It took me a long time to figure it out…

I want time.

That’s all. I want time. I want a summer off. I want a summer like they used to be. I want the kind of a summer that can only happen to kids between the ages of five and nine – when you’re old enough to go outside and play on your own, but you’re young enough that you don’t know there are things you’re not supposed to do. That’s what I want.

I remember waking up in the morning, lazing in bed and watching the shadows in my room move, the dust motes slowly swirling in a sunbeam. A single, well-aimed breath would make them dance, even from all the way across the room – but once you’ve made the dust dance in the sunlight, you have to be patient for a long time before you can do it again. One look out the window and you knew if it was a wet, dewy sort of day or a dry, dusty sort of day. Both are good, but it’s best to wear shoes if it’s a wet, dewy sort of day. Out the room, down the stairs and out the door – sometimes fully clothed, sometimes wearing nothing but britches – it all depended on who caught you before you got out the door. Never mind taking a bath – time enough to do that later, after the clouds go to bed.

Growing up on a farm spoiled me. Once out the door, so many things to do. But there was never a decision to make. Within thirty seconds of leaving the house, something would capture my energy – sometimes a pretty bug climbing up a tallish stem of grass to get a good look at his kingdom, other times a sparkly rock would keep me entertained for a while, dreaming of the places it had been. Sometimes I’d want to see the sky, so I’d wander off to the fields where the trees stand solitaire along the edges of the rows, keeping watch.

The sky can look powerful big when the trees are far away – a good place to watch the clouds. How far can the clouds see? Can they see all the way to town? Where have they been? Did they like it there? Sometimes, though, it’s nice to watch the clouds with just one tree to keep you company. That’s easy enough… If you do it right, you can find a spot under a tree where the green leaves make the sky look electric blue – that’s the best.

Ooh – there’s a milkweed. Any butterflies around? They like milkweeds. There are usually some butterflies in the fields, but sometimes they like to go in the grove and hang out with the trees there for a while. Off to chase the flutterbyes.

The grove is always a fun place to be. Davy Crockett and Dan’l Boone help me sneak through the woods, so quiet and slow the rabbits don’t notice me. Sometimes it’s nice to go slow, to feel the leaves brush against you, to look at the bark on the trees, to smell the grass, to wonder at the complexity and harmony. Sometimes it’s nice to be a rabbit. I could never get my nose to wriggle right, though. Other times it’s fun to help Stanley and Livingston find their way out of the wilderness, making lots of noise so the elephants don’t attack. Sometimes it’s nice to climb a tree. If you’re real still in a tree sometimes a bird will land close.

Sometimes there are birds in the barns. But sometimes there are bees and wasps and hornets, too. Best not to go there. Better to play in the dust for a while. Ever figure out why there’s so much dust over here, but not so much over there? Why does it pile in one place when it’s outside? Or is it just a thing that happens on farms in the summer? Throwing a handful of dust if fun, if you’re not throwing for distance.

You could tell when it’s getting late – the cicadas start whirring, the crickets tune their orchestras, the frogs tell the crickets to shut up, sometimes the first lightning bug of the night flashes. Time to go in. Gotta pause for a while first, though – this is the best time to listen. How many crickets are there? Where are the frogs, anyway? Why can’t I find the frogs in the daytime?

Methinks the joy of childhood summers lies partly in the patience to take the world at it’s own pace, and partly the knowledge that you have no responsibilities. Of course someone has to cook the meals and clean things and do all the things that need to be done by responsible people, but can’t we wait until the clouds go to sleep to do that? There’s plenty of time…

So, that’s what I’m yearning for. I want one more childhood summer on the farm. But this time I want company – I want my wife there. It’s more fun to look at bugs if you have someone you like with you. I promise, if I get my summer, I’ll waste it well.

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Dagmar’s Operation

(This was originally an e-mail I sent out to a few people.)

Just a quick Dagmar update…

Dagmar had her little operation yesterday. We (Dagmar’s mother Kriemhild and I) took her in to the doctor at noon, watched Dagmar sign a lot of papers with big scary words on them, and got ushered into a little room.

After a few minutes of sitting in the little room, fidgeting, a nurse-type lady bustled in. “How is everyone today I just need to take a little blood are you Dagmar hold your arm out please,” she said in one quick blurt.

“I don’t do so vell with blood,” said Dagmar. “Can I please lay down?”

So the nurse-type lady pulled a little hide-a-bed out of the wall, Dagmar plopped down and had her blood drawn. “I’m really nervous,” said Dagmar. “I don’t mind the operation, but I’m allergic to painkillers und I don’t like anesthesia and I’m really nervous.”

The nurse-type lady smiled nicely at Dagmar. “I can give you a nice little ‘cocktail’ of stuff that’ll calm you down. You’ll like it. You won’t be nervous at all.” With that she bustled off, leaving Dagmar a little robe to put on. A few minutes she was back. “Here you go, dear. This tastes nasty, but in a minute or two you won’t care.” She handed Dagmar two evil-looking cups of goop. “One is the happy juice, the other is grape juice to wash it down with,” she said. In two happy gulps Dagmar had the evil-looking cups of goop down her gullet. “In just a few minutes the anesthesiologist will be here to go over the details with you,” the nurse-type lady said, bustling out the door.

We sat there for a few minutes, Kriemhild, Dagmar and myself, fidgeting, saying things like “I’m sure everything will be okay,” and “they’re sure nice here,” and “I’m sure everything will be okay.” Dagmar would intersperse every now and then with “I really like these drugs they gave me,” and “Vow! These drugs nice are sure good I like,” and the occasional mumble-mumble-giggle-mumble.

The door burst open, revealing a very buff-looking six-foot-two blonde man with an easy smile. “How is everyone today I just need to talk to Dagmar are you Dagmar how are you today Dagmar I’m your anesthesiologist I need you to take a few deep breaths,” he said in one big blurt, waving his stethescope in Dagmar’s general direction. Dagmar looked at the very buff-looking six-foot-two blonde man, sighed and smiled. “Vy yes, I’m Dagmar,” she said, breathing deeply, heaving her busom in his direction.

He listened to her boobs for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said “I need you to stick out your…” Dagmar pulled her robe down a bit and waggled her cleavage at him, giggling. “Tongue,” he continued.

After a bit, the very buff-looking six-foot-two blonde man asked if Dagmar had any allergies. “Yup,” she giggled. She then listed off almost every drug ever invented. “Okay,” said the guy. “I guess all I can really do is send you home with some nice Ibuprofen…” with that he bustled out the door.

“Vow,” said Dagmar. “Dese drugs I like happy happy wheee!”

Seconds later the doctor showed up. “Hi Dagmar,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“Blik aargoooie mang dipt,” Said Dagmar. She picked up the stethoscope that was dangling from the doctor’s neck and verys seriously intoned “Flooo bink?” into it.

“Okay,” said the doctor. “Let’s go!” He turned and headed on down the hall. Dagmar followed, making airplane “zoom zoom” noises. Kriemhild and I headed after them.

“No,” said a nurse. “You two don’t get to go watch. You have to go sit in the lobby, over that way.”

“Can I have a lollipop?” I asked. “I’m really nervous. Maybe you could give me some of the stuff you gave Dagmar?” The nurse didn’t bother to answer, she just pointed to the door. “Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

An hour and a half later, a nurse-type lady came out and asked Kriemhild and I to follow her. “You guys wait in here, and the doctor will be right in to talk to you. Dagmar’s in the recovery room, doing fine.” With that, she bustled out a different door.

“I’m nerfous,” said Kriemhild. “I hope everyting vent okay. It took too long.”

“I think she’s fine,” I said. “They said Dagmar’s in the recovery room, not ‘The body will be held for autopsy.’ That’s a good sign.”

After a few minutes of fidgeting, the doctor appeared. I could swear he came out of the closet. Why a room the size of a bathroom needs three doors is beyond me. Anyway… “Well, she gave me quite a workout,” he said. “But it all turned out okay.”

“Vy did it take so long?” asked Kriemhild.

“Here’s the story,” said the doc. “I made an incision and inserted the scope. As I kind of expected, there was a lot of scar tissue there from her previous operations. Her bowel was stuck to the wall of her abdomen, so I had to fix that. Then I found some more scar tissue, so I fixed that.” He pointed to what I had assumed was a piece abstract art on his clipboard. “Then, as you can plainly see,” he pointed at a goopy bit on the picture, “I noticed that she doesn’t have a gall bladder. I assume that’s on purpose?” We nodded. “Good,” he said. “They don’t often fall out on their own. Anyway, there was a lot of scarring there. Then I got to the right ovary, where the cyst should have been.” He pointed at another goopy bit on the picture.

“Should have been?” I asked. “Huh?”

“Well, he said, “We looked at her right ovary, and it was fine. No cyst, nothing. Then we noticed something BEHIND her right ovary. We were a little surprised – it was her left ovary.”

“Hmmm…” I said intelligently. “Oh. Hmmm…. You DID go to school for this, right? Like, for a long time?”

“Anyway,” he continued, ignoring me, “it turns out that her left ovary was the one with the cyst the whole time. It just happened to be on her right side for some reason. Her uterus was twisted up pretty good, too, so we fixed that, then we took the left ovary out, poked the right ovary back into position, fixed some more scar tissue and here we are. Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Kriemhild. “How far apart are ovaries, normally? How did her left vun get over by her right vun?” The doctor held up his fingers about this far apart. “The ovaries are only this far apart,” he said. “Just a few inches.”

“You’re kidding!” I said. “The pictures they showed us in third grade made them look really huge. Anyway, how is Dagmar? Will she need hormones or anything?”

“She’s fine,” the doctor said. “Her right ovary should be able to make all the hormones she needs. Um… I wouldn’t plan on having children though.” He then went over some other goopy details that I’ll spare you.

Kriemhild and I went outside to call some people and wait for Dagmar to wake up. After a considerable amount of time, a nurse-type lady found us. “Dagmar’s awake,” she said. “She’s drinking some nice 7-Up.” So, we all trooped into yet another little room where Dagmar was laying back in an easy chair, one green eye open. “Gurf?” she said. “Iggle vump.” With that, the eye closed and the snoring started.

Around five o’clock, Dagmar’s friend Marilyn showed up to see how things were going. “She’s sleeping nicely,” Kriemhild said. “It’s good dat dey let her sleep.” Marilyn agreed, I nodded somberly and Dagmar snored. “So many places, they don’t let a person sleep,” Kriemhild continued. “They just come in and vake them up right avay. A person needs to sleep after an operation.” She was interrupted at that point by a nurse-type lady. “I’ve just come to wake Dagmar up,” she said. “We can’t let her sleep the whole day away…”

“Dagmar,” the nurse-type lady said. “DAGMAR. It’s time to start waking up.” One green eye opened and slowly focused on the nurse-type lady. “You need to wake up now,” the nurse continued. “I need to see both eyes open.”

“Bitch,” said Dagmar, one green eye focused on the nurse-type lady. Marilyn stifled a laugh. Kriemhild turned toward the corner, giggling. I hung my head and concentrated on unfunny things. That’s when I noticed that after two hours of lying perfectly still, Dagmar had finally managed to wiggle a little. She had made a fist, leaving one finger sticking up. Dagmar must have been proud of it, because she made sure to show it to the nurse-type lady. I guess the nurse-type lady wasn’t too impressed. In fact, seemed to get much grouchier at that point. Within minutes Dagmar was up, padding up and down the hallway in her little robe. The nurse-type lady read off a list of things Dagmar could and couldn’t do. “Don’t let her take a shower today, she can take off her bandages tomorrow morning, she can have some toast and soup tonight for supper, no sexual relations for two weeks…” “Bitch,” I said, both eyes focused on the nurse-type lady. “No one told us that BEFORE the operation. That’s not fair!”

Anyway, to make a really, really long story merely tedious, Dagmar’s home now, and is feeling surprisingly good! Usually after any kind of surgery she’s in pretty bad shape, but this time she’s already had a few meals, passed gas (the doctor seemed to be concerned about that – “Don’t let her eat until she’s passed gas,” he said – so when she tooted this morning we held a toot celebration), and is happily pestering the cat. She’s rather stiff and sore, but not too bad. Hopefully she’ll be able to go back to work next week sometime if she wants (or if she wants to take a few days off, she should be able to enjoy them rather than laying on the couch moaning in pain). So we’re all happy!

Have a happy day!
Chris

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