James Douglas Woolery, MD – 50th Reunion Essay

James Douglas Woolery, MD

2900 Monticello Road

Napa, California 94558

jdirons@mac.com

707-501-0114

Spouse(s): Nina Schwartz, MD (1973)

Child(ren): Elijah (1976), Alexander (1979), Hart and Gavan (identical twins, 1981)

Grandchild(ren): Phoebe (2011), Dashiell James (2016), Fiona (2015), Axelle (2016)

Education: UC San Diego, 1973 M.D. UCLA School of Medicine, 1979 Residency in Psychiatry

Career: Psychiatrist for the Permanente Medical Group, Northern California 1990–2014, chief of department 2005–2014

Avocations: Reading ancient Greek, writing poetry, birding, fly fishing, teaching mathematics, cooking for dinner parties for friends

College: Branford

It’s not too much to say that every good thing in my life has resulted from the accident of having been admitted to Yale. Here’s my attempt to celebrate some of these: in the last piece, I recall a dear friend, now gone. In the first two, I am thinking of Nina’s and my children and grandchildren, the greatest blessings one can have.

THERMODYNAMICS OF THE MARTINI

An abstract algebra of winter trees,

an alphabet, as one can plainly see,

is offered us, now that the bumblebees

are sleeping. Phoebe, could you sing for me,

while sunlight lifts the branches? Can this be

the Heaven I was promised at eighteen?

For Phoebe

I’M GOING TO SAY MY FAVORITE MONTH IS JUNE

I’m going to say my favorite girl is you.

When you showed up, the new me came to life.

For years I’d been a patient of myself,

taking my pulse, checking my temperature.

The saddest thing: no good came from the cave

I lived in then. —The almost always rain

and wind occasioned fruitless argument

—though many aren’t content even in the sun.

Fancying myself an “auteur,” I’d sleep through

my weakest lines, too tired for fathering.

—Surprise! A first child, a baby girl

who learned to count before she spoke a word,

which made me stop my bitching, and begin

to move her toward Euler’s Identity.

We’d leave our bicycles high in the woods.

By now they’ve rusted back to what they were

before we tuned ’em up. Even as a teen,

she’ll never “press,” beyond the usual.

Is this twilight infectious, Dr. Dreams?

Her laughter doesn’t diminish after dark.

The clockwork of the heavens only seems

to constellate the gladness of her being.

We find it hard to argue with a star.

For Phoebe

THE AGE OF MIRACLES HASN’T PASSED

For a while we caught the spirit of things

as they had drifted in the past. And we got

to know them really well. Cobwebs sailed

above the shore…—John Ashbery

You know what makes me happy? Bach, and birds.

And children, even when they’re ill-behaved.

I’ve spoken with the parents, and the wind

is dropping by this evening, to appraise

the way grandparents have been tending to

inclement weather, and the rites of spring,

this time around being… chaotic. —So

by tallying apart things that we know

to be true, or at least not everywhere

riddled with falsehood, we can just relax.

But if the age of miracles has passed,

It’s back to work for us! Untouched by fire,

It’s going to be more grueling this time.

We’ll wait here for the next storm, for its light.

It seems to me we’re finally “getting” life.

Or living. (Which is almost the same thing.)

If I get too happy, mix me a drink!

I’ve been reliving old errors: here’s my song:

This time, I’m right. Correct me if I’m wrong.

For Bruce Hopewell