Precisely at four o’clock a string quartet began a minuet in D (Author’s note: or A flat. I admit I have a tin ear) in the palace rose garden. Courtiers gathered around elaborately appointed tables of biscuits, little cakes and finger sandwiches.
Clarence, still hiding under Maria’s dress, thought she was particularly fidgety, perhaps because that lecherous old guardian of hers was lurking somewhere nearby trying to catch a glimpse down the front of her gown. Slightly lifting her hem, he peeked out, noticing they were right next to one of the tables loaded with goodies.
“Toss me a couple of those sandwiches down here,” he whispered.
“No, my guardian is watching me,” she replied in a voice tinged with Spanish disgust.
“Dirty old man,” Clarence muttered.
“He’s stalking someone else now,” Maria continued her running commentary. “Oh my. She has bigger bazingas than I do.”
“Dirty old man.” Clarence cocked his head. He heard a growing round of polite applause. “Has the Queen arrived?”
“She’s coming to this table,” she responded with clipped English syllables.
Clarence could not help himself. He peeked from under Maria’s dress just in time to see Robin break protocol and rush ahead of the Queen to grab at the cakes and sandwiches.
“Care for a cake, Bessie” Robin asked.
Maria stepped forward and asked in most proper English, “Your Majesty, I don’t want to appear rude, but may I speak privately to you?”
“At this very moment?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a good reason, I assure you,” the young lady replied.
“We can take our tea to your chambers, Bessie,” Robin offered, trying to be accommodating.
Maria quickly turned on her most Teutonic tenor. “This must be private.”
“Go ahead.” He looked hurt and bit into his cake. “See if I care.”
Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting accompanied the Queen and Maria to the royal chambers but did not enter. Elizabeth sat at the head of her conference table and smiled at her guest.
“Now what is this urgent business?”
Clarence slid out from under Maria’s dress, stood and bowed deeply, all in one smooth maneuver.
“Clarence Flippertigibbit! We were told you went down with the Aquamarine Pigeon!” the Queen gasped.
“And I would have if it were not for my excellent swimming skills learned at Eton.”
“Needless to say, I am grateful to Eton.” Elizabeth smiled as she examined Clarence’s trim, toned small frame.
“And this fine young lady found me when I washed ashore in Spain.”
“We are in your debt, Miss Horenhausen.” Her Majesty nodded regally at Maria.
“He looked like a drowned puppy,” she explained in the Spanish style. “How could I not help but come to his assistance?”
Elizabeth wrinkled her brow and asked Clarence, “Couldn’t you have found a more convenient mode of transportation?”
“Oh, it wasn’t so inconvenient,” Maria interrupted, using her English accent. “I’m an excellent horsewoman.”
“Still,” the Queen continued, “it must have been dreadful.”
“Especially after she ate those beans,” Clarence said.
“Yes, well, how quaint. You may return to tea time before Senor Vacacabeza misses you, Miss Horenhausen.”
“Si, your Majesty.” Maria curtsied and left.
Elizabeth leaned toward Clarence. “Tell me, young Flippertigibbit, what news from Spain?
“An impending invasion, my lady,” Clarence announced, sticking out his square jaw, an unusual facial characteristic in a man so diminutive in stature.
She looked away in a private pensive moment. “Then the letter was correct.” The Queen returned her attention to Clarence. “When can we expect the invasion?”
“Sooner than you think, your Majesty, a day to change the course of history!”
“I understand the magnitude of the problem.” Her voice carried a bit of defensiveness. After all, she had lived through quite a large amount of history and knew a problem when she saw one.
Clarence forgot himself and stepped closer to the Queen than was usually deemed proper. “No madam. I tremble within my soul that you do not.”
“You mean the traitor within my court?” she asked with a wry smile.
“How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I have my sources. Do you know his identity?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He bowed his head.
“You must go to Spain, find out who this traitor is and return before the fleet sails for our shores,” Elizabeth commanded as she stood.
“But will I have time?”
“We must have time. Fate has given us nothing else. It must give us time.”
“Nice turn of phrase,” Clarence complimented her. “May I use it sometime?”
“Be my guest.” The Queen wagged a finger at him. “But we do have some time. As long as Vacacabeza is at court, Phillip’s fleet will not sail.”
“Brilliant deduction.” He smiled. “And you didn’t even go to Eton.”
“Don’t rub it in.” She pointed to the door. “Leave tonight.”
“Yes, your Majesty! I shall seize this golden opportunity to uphold the honor of England! My breast fills with unbridled pride that Elizabeth herself, the monarch of the ages—“
“Go!” she commanded impatiently. She had forgotten what a little blowhard Clarence was, but most graduates of Eton were full of themselves.
“I’m out of here! To Spain!” He practically flew to the door, opened it and leaped out.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I bet my father never had to deal with people like this.”

Since my wife started feeling better she has started reaching out on the internet who have had a similar battle against cancer.
One woman wrote of her depression over adjusting to the changes to her body as the result of breast cancer. My wife replied that she had not gone through any depression over the double mastectomy or losing her air. Throughout her adult life she had considered in solitary reflective moments how she thought she would react if she did develop breast cancer. She had made peace with all the things that matter to most people, but she had not considered the overwhelming fatigue which comes with the chemotherapy treatment.
She has not worried about what was taken away, but has felt frustration and impatience as she was forced to sit at home, month after month. The only places she went were to treatment centers, doctor’s offices and hospitals. She missed going up and down all the aisles at the grocery store looking at all the products she might want to buy to make a new recipe. She missed going to the kitchen and making all of those new dishes and deciding if she liked them or not.
I imagine many women with breast cancer felt the same way, and it was nice to read another person’s sharing their own exasperation of waiting for their energy to return so they could start living their lives the way they wanted to and not be forced into just sitting there, not really keeping up with what was on television, or what they might feel like eating or just having thoughts other than those that centered around the illness.
She’s now getting out to shop, she’s paying attention to the new documentary on anything, everything. She’s planning dinners. She’s gone back to Genealogy.Com to find out more about our weird relatives who lived a couple of hundred years ago. She’s connecting back to the world.
Who knew the internet could play such an important part in the fight against cancer?

One Southern nickname has had more than its share of misinterpretation.
Usually when you hear the name Bubba you might think of a man who is not too bright and not too clean. Perhaps a minor character in a Tennessee Williams play. I know a nice young man folks call Bubba who is the exact opposite of what usually comes to mind.
But the title of Bubba is much more than that. Bubba refers to an older brother. When a toddler calls out for Big Brother, what comes out of the mouth is Bubba. This nickname tends to stay with the big brother after the toddler grows up and learns to speak more distinctly.
If this concept isn’t completely clear, then let me describe four episodes from a life which define the status of Bubba in a Southern family.
Early one summer morning—before the sun had finished its first cup of coffee so it didn’t have the energy to radiate golden beams of heat yet –a boy wearing just a torn pair of jeans walked down a dusty country road. He had a cane fishing pole slung over one shoulder and a pail of worms dangled from his hand.
Crashing through the kitchen door of an old farm house, his toddling baby sister in a droopy diaper ran after him, bawling, “Bubba! Bubba!”
Her brother stopped, picked her up and positioned her on his hip. With his other hand he fumbled with the cane pole and bucket of worms. She dried her eyes and contentedly patted the back of his head as they continued walking on the dusty road to a creek hidden somewhere in a small grove of trees.
Now a dozen or so years passed, and Sissy was a pretty teen-aged girl who found herself in this football player’s car, trying her best to push away the wide receiver who was moving forward for a touchdown.
Just then Bubba flung open the driver’s door , dragged Sissy’s boyfriend out, threw him down and proceeded to pummel the boy’s face. Jumping from the car, Sissy rushed around it to pull her 300-pound brother off the most popular boy in the senior class.
As soon as Bubba let up on his assault, the football hero leapt to his feet, jumped into his car and peeled out, leaving Bubba and Sissy in a cloud of dirt in the middle of nowhere in the shadows of midnight.
“Bubba!” Her voice overflowed with anger, embarrassment and frustration.
Poor Bubba just stood there, shuffling his big clumsy feet, hunkering down his beefy shoulders, and tears rolled down the red puffy cheeks on his full, rounded face.
“Oh, Bubba.” Sissy could not stay mad when Bubba looked so pitiful and sad. Without a word, she took his hand, and they walked through the darkness toward home.
A few more years later Sissy became a beautiful bride. Her only care in the world was wondering who would walk her down the aisle. Her father dropped dead of a heart attack a month before the wedding. Her grandfather agreed to take his son’s place, but the morning of the nuptials he was found dead in his bed.
Sissy’s mind swirled with confusion, fear and sadness. She had no idea who would walk her down the aisle when she turned around and there stood Bubba. He looked uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit that his grandfather had laid out on his bed to wear to the church. Bubba was about to pop every button on that old suit, but he smiled proudly and extended his arm to his sister. Sissy took his arm and kissed his puffy red cheek.
“Bubba,” she whispered as they entered the church’s sanctuary. “Thank you.”
Life flew by so fast, that Sissy didn’t notice that her children became adults, and she slowed down and grew old. So it was a terrible shock when the doctor told her she only had a few months to live.
Each day friends and relatives visited in her bedroom, dimly lit because harsh light hurt her eyes. Old school mates spent a few hours reminiscing about boring teachers, football games and homecoming dances. Her husband always had a fence to mend on the farm and a mare about to foal. He’d be right in to see her when he caught up with his chores. Sissy’s sons and daughters took turns sitting by her bedside, ready to pour her a glass of water or fluff her pillow. They knew what was on her mind, but they didn’t mention it.
Then one day the home nurse gathered the children together to inform them they would lose their mother before the sun rose again. The sons told their father that he needed to come in the house right now. He insisted the field needed to be plowed or else the crops wouldn’t come in before the frost.
Sissy adjusted her covers restlessly. Everyone knew whom she wanted to see, but no one said his name. Finally the bedroom door creaked open, and a large gray-haired man lumbered across the room to her bed. Sissy smiled and extended her hand.
“Oh, Bubba. I love you.”
Bubba didn’t say a word. Tears glistened in his eyes.
The next time you call someone Bubba, be sure you’re talking about this kind of man.