Yeah, someone we know has it. We are keeping our fingers crossed that no one else comes down with H1N1. Ever since I got the flu in 1999, I’ve gotten inoculated each year without fail. It made a big impression on me. I remember thinking I was going to die. Or, it may have been, please, lord, let me die. As this post indicates, that hasn’t happened yet, although my REDTHREAD administrator might think my prose is deadly.

(And, BTW, does the fact that I’m Jewish protect me in any way from contracting swine flu? Drats!)

Anyway, the CDC has a protocol worth passing on: make sure the afflicted stays home for seven days after the doctor’s diagnosis; don’t say anything like “so and so has SWINE FLU!!!” unless that very admission has come out of that person’s (covered) mouth. And, most important, keep washing your hands and covering your mouth with your inner elbow when you cough or sneeze.

Finally, and this might not actually be in the protocol: start ingesting chicken soup as soon as you start feeling icky.

Be Well!

“Polo is back at the U” the flyer read. Pinned on the bulletin board in the barn where I board my horse, it advertised a champagne bunch and polo match to raise money for a new pharmacy building on campus. Because I’m not what you could call an avid participant of college sports-I’ve been to one football game in three decades-I knew this was an event I could get behind, albeit not too close to the behinds of the polo ponies lined up for action.

Back in the day, the U had its own stable and polo team. Organized by riders from Fort Douglas, the sport was abandoned in the forties when, wouldn’t you know, the Army started using Jeeps instead of beasts to cart ammo around. Reincarnated as a fundraiser, polo’s raison d’etre couldn’t be more perfect.

Thanks to history and Ralph Lauren, polo attracts, as it were, the well shod. Tickets for the champagne brunch cost $100 a pop and around 350 sold. Being horse poor, (meaning my horse has nicer shoes than I do), I got in for blogging about the event. (Thanks Chris.) There I was with the wellest of the well to dos. I know this because the women wore hats as big as those worn on derby day in Kentucky and men opted for blazers over crisp, white shirts. In short, the only guys wearing polo shirts were astride a horse.

And those horses. Watching them galloping at full tilt down the field, stopping on a dime, whirling, bumping, leaping, thumping, well, it was exciting enough for watchers to pause mid-gulp ‘da bubbly. Even a devoted Peta-ite would have to admit that these polo ponies dig their jobs. Of the many factoids associated with the sport, I learned that 85 to 90 percent of the horses used for polo are mares. This is because they give their all-all their heart, soul, athleticism, and desire-doing what they love. The riders-seven men and one woman-many from Argentina, are equally devoted to the sport. Well, you would have to be as polo is ranked the second most dangerous sport, meaning more people die each year playing it than swimming with sharks.

At halftime, I joined my husband in the general admission ($10) bleachers adjacent the grand tent. There we watched the stomping of the divots, a practical tradition wherein eager spectators stomp the sod torn up by galloping hooves and pitched mallets. Filing out eagerly onto the green field of this perfectly orchestrated event, they looked happy, content, and ready to live another day in the knowledge that a good cause was had by all.

Note: The College of Pharmacy’s Dean’s Demons won over Mark Miller’s 4Runners by a count of 15-11 in six chukkars.

A coworker and I went to the exhibit Splendid Heritage: Perspectives on American Indian Art at the Museum of Fine Arts a couple of weeks ago. Splendid, indeed, and surprisingly visceral and soul jostling. Just what you hope for when visiting an art museum.

The reason for this effect is due, I believe, to the brilliance of the objects themselves. The exhibit’s blend of cultural and artistic artifacts certainly speaks to a way of life that the makers recorded and celebrated, but, more important, it resonates with the skill, imagination, and passion of a particular person. We don’t know that person’s name, unfortunately. What we do know is that he/she was an artist.

There is “Winter Count,” a painting on—buckskin?—that chronicles the disasters that befell the tribe over the course of the winter. Executed in long columns across this page of history are ponies felled by arrows, their riders similarly pierced, with a red streak trailing out of their bodies, as well as those presumably lost by disease and other treachery. There may have been joyful events depicted, but I was struck by the realization that this was a painstaking notation of loss.

Another piece, an Ojibwa saddle, is embroidered in a floral motif, the four corners beaded in blue and (was it rose?) on a white beaded background. Thankfully, the catalog by the University of Utah Press tells us that it is made of native tanned buffalo hide and called a pad saddle. It is the only saddle I’ve ever seen that looks cushiony, like a pillow. Who, I wonder, came up with that lovely, pragmatic idea. Artist.

There are moccasins and spears and bowls made of clay and rush. There are shirts of deerskin made for warriors. The museum has created touching stations for those of us who crave a tactile experience to complement our eyes. I remember hearing the beating of a drum, too, but maybe I’m making that up.

From the collection of John and Marva Warnock—of Adobe Systems fame—Splendid Heritage gives us 144 objects from the Native people of the Plains, Plateau, and Northeast. We are told that “museums traditionally interpret this type of material by emphasizing either the cultural or fine arts context. Splendid Heritage, however, has been curated to examine objects from both perspectives—the intersection of culture and art—to uncover a richer narrative about the material and enhance the viewer’s understanding.”

Splendid Heritage lasts until January 3. If you only go to museums a few times a year, make this one of those times.