ep·i·logue also ep·i·log (ěp'ə-lôg', -lŏg') n.
over and out-until next time
- A short poem or speech spoken directly to the audience
following the conclusion of a play. - The Performer who delivers such a short poem or speech.
- A short addition or concluding section at the end of a literary work,
often dealing with the future of its characters. Also called an afterward.
We drove to the Jacksonville airport, said good bye to dad. He found an earlier flight and took it back to Charlotte. We hung around for our flight to Manchester, New Hampshire. We looked forward to seeing Chris's dad, helping him around the house. We also had scheduled a pancake fund raiser at Applebee's. Chris's sister Barb arranged it all, including a visit from a Manchester Union Leader reporter. We'd have an opportunity to tell our story about our moms and about pancreatic cancer.
When we're in Manchester, we always visit Newbury Comics and Stoneyfield Farm Dairy in Londonderry, New Hampshire. The comic shop has music, books/comics, postcards, magnets, bumper stickers, Red Sox Nation paraphernalia and Spawn figures. The place is fun and we usually find something we can't live without.
Stoneyfield Farm Dairy offers plant tours. The tour includes a short video of some history, then a quick out-and-back walk down one factory hallway. The highlight comes at the end of the tour. A tray overflowing with all their products sits on the table, no-limit yogurt consumption, lactose intolerance be damned. If you've never tried YoBaby Original, do so immediately. The top layer is whole cream fat. Growing babies need that extra layer for brain development and long winter nights. It's also a good thing babies can't yet read the nutrition label and fat content numbers.
No tour this time, just stocking up on yogurt and yogurt drinks for Pete, Chris's dad. We get talking to the folks helping us out. We mention we're from Oregon, we love your stuff, we always eat Banilla (Banana/vanilla) yogurt when we can find it and that we come in every time we're in town. They remember us. Out comes the sample tray, well alright!
We eat yogurt, drink yogurt. Chris grabs a strawberry soy yogurt, pops the top, takes a bite. Something is very wrong, but the alarm does not go off in time before she swallows that first bite. The good-through dates are past on a few of the items on the tray. Chris let's them know, we leave.
Immediately it hits, like a stomach flu. Ka-Boom. All the basement action causes a fissure, a lovely hemorrhoid. Nice. Our drive to Portsmouth, New Hampshire the next day was uncomfortable and long for Chris and this was just the beginning. We buy the usual remedies at the drug store.
Still suffering two days later, we catch our flight to NYC. The connection out of JFK turned into one of those precious travel experiences that never translates into words, like being in the military or war. You just have to live through it. Let's just say it was unbelievable. Our gate, stuck between a jumbo jet flight to Italy and another flight to Mexico City was clustered with passenger-in-waiting overflow, all three flights leaving within 20 minutes of one another.
Finally on the plane, the back up in the big blue is so severe, we sit on the tarmac for two more hours. The way the pilot explained it, our on-ramp into the sky was metered, keeping us waiting behind 25 other planes while air traffic cleared out.
Airborne, we pray for a movie, as the flight is almost 7 hours. Every 15 minutes or so, Chris would quickly inhale in pain, the knife-wielding butt barnacle slashing, jabbing and poking for the fun of it. It sounded like she was taking a quick hit off a fatty, not like either of us knows what that sounds like. I'd look at her grimace with eyes squeezed shut. What could I do? I'll write a poem to mark the moment. There is no better way to pay our respects to such circumstances.
The aircraft starts its descent, we know we'll be home in a little over an hour. Emily drops us at the house. We drag ourselves in, open some windows to clear the stale air. The flight delay put our arrival at home around 1 am. Too tired for a shower, brushing my teeth will have to suffice, then to bed. In the darkened bathroom I grab the paste, loading up my brush. Two or three strokes. Did we pick up a new toothpaste? This stuff has no taste.
I turn on the light and check the label - Preparation H.
When we're in Manchester, we always visit Newbury Comics and Stoneyfield Farm Dairy in Londonderry, New Hampshire. The comic shop has music, books/comics, postcards, magnets, bumper stickers, Red Sox Nation paraphernalia and Spawn figures. The place is fun and we usually find something we can't live without.
Stoneyfield Farm Dairy offers plant tours. The tour includes a short video of some history, then a quick out-and-back walk down one factory hallway. The highlight comes at the end of the tour. A tray overflowing with all their products sits on the table, no-limit yogurt consumption, lactose intolerance be damned. If you've never tried YoBaby Original, do so immediately. The top layer is whole cream fat. Growing babies need that extra layer for brain development and long winter nights. It's also a good thing babies can't yet read the nutrition label and fat content numbers.
No tour this time, just stocking up on yogurt and yogurt drinks for Pete, Chris's dad. We get talking to the folks helping us out. We mention we're from Oregon, we love your stuff, we always eat Banilla (Banana/vanilla) yogurt when we can find it and that we come in every time we're in town. They remember us. Out comes the sample tray, well alright!
We eat yogurt, drink yogurt. Chris grabs a strawberry soy yogurt, pops the top, takes a bite. Something is very wrong, but the alarm does not go off in time before she swallows that first bite. The good-through dates are past on a few of the items on the tray. Chris let's them know, we leave.
Immediately it hits, like a stomach flu. Ka-Boom. All the basement action causes a fissure, a lovely hemorrhoid. Nice. Our drive to Portsmouth, New Hampshire the next day was uncomfortable and long for Chris and this was just the beginning. We buy the usual remedies at the drug store.
Still suffering two days later, we catch our flight to NYC. The connection out of JFK turned into one of those precious travel experiences that never translates into words, like being in the military or war. You just have to live through it. Let's just say it was unbelievable. Our gate, stuck between a jumbo jet flight to Italy and another flight to Mexico City was clustered with passenger-in-waiting overflow, all three flights leaving within 20 minutes of one another.
Finally on the plane, the back up in the big blue is so severe, we sit on the tarmac for two more hours. The way the pilot explained it, our on-ramp into the sky was metered, keeping us waiting behind 25 other planes while air traffic cleared out.
Airborne, we pray for a movie, as the flight is almost 7 hours. Every 15 minutes or so, Chris would quickly inhale in pain, the knife-wielding butt barnacle slashing, jabbing and poking for the fun of it. It sounded like she was taking a quick hit off a fatty, not like either of us knows what that sounds like. I'd look at her grimace with eyes squeezed shut. What could I do? I'll write a poem to mark the moment. There is no better way to pay our respects to such circumstances.
The aircraft starts its descent, we know we'll be home in a little over an hour. Emily drops us at the house. We drag ourselves in, open some windows to clear the stale air. The flight delay put our arrival at home around 1 am. Too tired for a shower, brushing my teeth will have to suffice, then to bed. In the darkened bathroom I grab the paste, loading up my brush. Two or three strokes. Did we pick up a new toothpaste? This stuff has no taste.
I turn on the light and check the label - Preparation H.
over and out-until next time
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