Seattle Again

This winter, I made the trek to the Seattle area to visit my family again.  Arrived in the evening of December 6th, and will return late in the afternoon on January 3rd.  This trip, we haven't done as much touring as usual for a number of reasons, but it doesn't bother me a bit.  It's enough just for me to be here.

Flying always comes with little stories, some funny and some not. My flight to Seattle on that Thursday was not without those. I have to do the handicapped thing through airports. That makes those "glitches" more interesting, sometimes.

At Indy, I was pushed to Security by my wheelchair "pusher". She told me that, since I am younger than the cut-off age for not having to take off my shoes to go through the x-ray machine (75), I would have to put my shoes in the tray on the conveyor belt...but first, I had to take off my jacket, empty my pockets, unpack my laptop computer for inspection, etc., so I got out of the wheelchair and dutifully got busy. But the TSA guy at the metal detector told me to come on through the machine before I took off my shoes. He then told me I was good to go on the other side. Here is how that conversation went:

ME: What do I do now?
TSA guy: You're good to go.
ME: But I didn't even take off my shoes yet.
TSA: You're over the age of having to do that.

ME: No, I'm not.
TSA: Yeah, but you look it.

Now, I ask you: What is a lady supposed to do with that?? I did the only thing I could do. I patted him on the shoulder and just laughed. I'd like to think he didn't mean what he said--that he was just letting me know that I looked trustworthy so he was bending the rules for me. Yeah, that's probably it...right?

When my family flies, we all use our cell phones to alert the family on the destination end of the trip as to airport progress. "Through security." "At gate." "Boarded." "Touchdown." That sort of thing...
Somewhere between security and the departure gate at Indy International, my phone did a "pocket" function. When I took it out of my pocket to text my daughter that I had arrived at the departure gate to await the flight, I was appalled to see that the screen had enlarged itself so that I could only see a few BIG letters on the menu screen. I couldn't navigate my own phone. I had no clue what had happened or how to fix it. (I'm not exactly a whiz-bang cell phone user.) I resisted the urge to panic, knowing I would be unable to communicate with my daughter and family when I hit the ground in Seattle.

Smartest thing I did all day: I looked around at the other passengers in the waiting area. Most were older folks like me; EXCEPT, there was a young couple there... The man was standing with their baby strapped on his chest. He had earplugs in his ears and his cell phone in hand. The woman was sitting near him. THOSE were the ones I asked, "Are either of you more proficient in how to use cell phones than I am?" They both eagerly asked me what was wrong. I showed them my phone.

The man declared, "The magnifier has been activated." Magnifier? What the dickens is a magnifier? I didn't activate it, and I had no clue how to disable it! In short order, he used his phone to Google how to deactivate the magnifier on an iPhone...and voila! Back to normal screen!

Now, here's the kicker:
Know how to deactivate the magnifier on an iPhone? You must tap on the screen three times with three fingers together. Seriously. Everybody knows that, right?
All my English-teacher-brain could think of was Tom Sawyer's superstitious recipe for getting rid of warts, which made about as much sense:  Tap on the screen three times with three fingers, then swing a dead cat over your head three times...

The flight to Seattle was long and boring; however, it is the ONLY non-stop flight between Indianapolis and Seattle daily, so I am grateful.  I thought we landed a little harder than usual, but who's counting?  Apparently, there was an arrival gate change, so the three wheelchairs that were supposed to be waiting for the three passengers (me included) who needed them had to wait while the chairs made the transfer from the expected gate to the new one.  I had already texted my daughter that we were on the ground but that there would be a delay in getting to the baggage claim area where she (and family) were awaiting my arrival.  As it happened, my luggage got there before I did!  The family grabbed both bags and were ready to roll by the time my pusher could get me there.  Then homeward via their new vehicle.  The resident cat was waiting for us at home.  She doesn't even flinch anymore when she sees me for the first time each visit.  "Oh...that's the crazy old lady who smells funny but gives me treats..."

Speaking of cats, I wasn't at my daughter's house more than one day before other technical problems occurred.  I refer to them as the C v. C (Cat versus Computer) incidents.

1. My laptop is in my room at the front of my daughter's house. I am the first one up. The family cat, desirous of human attention, walks across the keyboard while I am sitting in front of it and manages to turn the screen display upside-down, including the mouse function. I send for my son-in-law to figure it out. He Googles what to do. Fixes it. (In case it happens to you, solution is Cntrl + Alt+ up arrow.)

2. I go to the kitchen to start prep for fixing brunch. When I return to the computer, the screen looks like it is in sleep mode. Screen is dark, but there is a shadow of function dimly in the background. Try to brighten the screen. No go. Cat again?? Send for son-in-law again. (In case it happens to you, solution is to reboot.)

3. I'm in the kitchen doing the supper dishes. My daughter asks me if I had been "drunk- Facebooking". Huh?? She shows me a huge response of gibberish I posted in reply to something one of my friends wrote on one of my previous posts. I return to my computer to find that the cat is on my bed, enjoying the warmth from the artificial fireplace, which puts her in the vicinity at the time of the crime. Send for poor Denis for the third time. (In case it happens to you, solution is to LOCK THE KEYBOARD: Windows button + L.)

All of this happened in one day in rapid succession.  Needless to say, I was about ready to supply a dead cat for the wart cure!

As always, it takes a couple of days for my body to adjust to the three hour time differential between Indiana and Washington.  Due to arrival time, it is usually 3:00 AM (Eastern Time) before I can actually get to bed.  I think that's the secret.  If I stay tired, I can sleep.  And if I sleep, I can keep normal family hours here.  Small victories!

Helping the Poor

Once upon a time, I was close friends with the Director of Emergency Disaster Services for the Salvation Army in the Chicago area.  (It's a long story, related to amateur radio.)  He lived in Elk Grove Village in the NW suburbs of Chicago, and considered himself my mentor in radio--and particularly the Salvation Army Team Emergency Radio Network.  (SATERN.)

As it happened, when I was visiting he and his wife one summer, he was given a directive.  There was a trailer park in Robbins, IL, (far south suburb) that was shutting down.  All of the tenants had been notified to evacuate at least 30 days ahead of time but weren't doing it.  (They claimed they had nowhere to go.  I believed them.)  In desperation, the power to the park was shut off.  That would do it, right?  Wrong!  The people remained in the dark.  Since the residents of the park were mostly African Americans, the Rev. Jesse Jackson appealed to The Salvation Army to feed the residents at least twice a day.  Which they did.

Thus, I rode with Major Pat on the SA canteen to the trailer park site on one day.  I was instructed to hand out meals off the back of the canteen to anyone who showed up.  And here is what happened:

1.  Most people were grateful for the free food.
2.  Some people were grumbling that the canteen was late.
3.  Some people said that they needed more than one meal because there were people "back at the trailer" who also needed food.
4.  Some people complained about what was offered.  (As I recall, it was hot dogs, baked beans, a bag of chips, a drink and dessert.)

I learned a lot about helping the poor that day.  I didn't know ANY of those people.  I had to ask if it was okay to give some people more than one meal.  Was instructed not to question it.  How much more significant is it if we actually KNOW the folks we are trying to help?

Since then, I have had many more opportunities to help those who can't help themselves.  If one actually follows their stories, it becomes obvious how lives of crime are created.  Helplessness, hopelessness, depression, an attitude of greed based on need develops, and those who "have" ignore those who "have not".  A beggar on the street is probably only going to buy booze and drugs, right?  Offer them food and they just turn it down because they just want cash.  Crooks, for sure! 

So what is an honest person to do?  My last two excursions into helping former students in need had mostly to do with food.  Jesus said, (paraphrased), "If you love me, feed my sheep."  I am fat and sassy, although not rich at all...but that causes me to understand that others need more sustenance than I do.  I have no desire to enable poor people to stay poor, but I DO understand that there are times when they need help.  I have endeavored to do that.  Sometimes, I regret it because it becomes like a seemingly bottomless pit.  Whatever I am able to do, financially, seems like not enough.  I can't do more.  Or can I??

What is real and what is manipulated?  I don't know, but I'm going to find out.  My latest "charge" is a youngish man, a former student, who is disabled but not in possession of any help from anywhere.  I will do what I can to help him.  As Jesus said, "There will be poor with us always"...but...what if I can SOMETHING that will make a difference?  I can't promise him the world, but I can promise him that I will try to make things better for him. 

If you are a praying person, please ask the Almighty to find a way for me to help without sending my finances into the gutter.  Please give this young man a reason to believe that the world is okay for even folks like him.  Please dedicate your life to helping people cannot help themselves. 

"God don't make no junk!"

The Ghosts of Thanksgivings Past

The majority of my Thanksgivings in my formative years were at my grandparents' farm, with my mom in charge of the meal.  The traditions were magnificent.  We were a close family.  Very close.

I can recall at least two years as an adult, when I was wending my way south to the farm on the night before Thanksgiving, when I wondered if I could get there.  It was snowing and nasty.  One time, I gratefully followed a salt truck on I-55, hoping that I could arrive in one piece.  I did.

We were a Navy family.  There was always a pre-dinner Happy Hour.  My parents were drinkers; my grandparents were not, but participated.  One year, my grandmother got silly after one martini.  My grandfather got silly after two.  He came to the dinner table, ate a whale of a meal, retired to his recliner thereafter to nap.  When he woke up, he asked when we would be eating "the boid".  He didn't remember eating his Thanksgiving dinner!

One year, when my grandparents were still living, my father left the Thanksgiving table after the meal and headed out to go rabbit hunting on the farm.  After some time, we heard a KA-BLAM.  Expected Dad to come in with a rabbit or two.  What he came in with was a shattered pinky finger.  He had seen a rabbit, shot and winged it.  The rabbit headed toward the granary.  Dad didn't want it to go beneath it and die there, so he started to run after it, tripped over a clod of dirt, and fell on his shotgun, crushing his little finger.  For reasons known only to God, the gun did NOT discharge, or this story would end quite a bit differently.  He came in, showing us a finger that he could not hold upright because the bone structure was shot.  He broke a clothespin and splinted his own finger.  A few minutes later, Mom asked, "Where's your dad?"  Uh...I don't know.  We looked.  His car was gone.  Without a word to anyone, he had driven himself in to the hospital ER.   He came home with a professionally splinted finger and the admonition that the finger was badly broken and would probably need surgery if it was ever to work properly again.  He was told to see his doctor when he got home on Sunday, which he did.  They surgically pinned the bones in his finger back together, then kept him overnight.  Only my father would think he could outrun a rabbit! 

Another year, the snifter of martinis got to my mother.  She was cooking and very, very happy.  In fact, she was sooo happy that we began to wonder if dinner was actually going to make it to the table.  It did, and it was delicious, but the rest of us had to step up and make sure it happened.

My father always ordered fresh turkeys from the local grocery--the bigger, the better.  He grew up hungry.  We never had less than a 25-lb. bird.  Mom had it in the oven by 5:00 or 5:30 AM.  When we got up, the house already smelled wonderful!  When that turkey came out of the oven, my father would oooh and aaah like a child in a candy store.  Later, Mom pushed dinner time for later in the day, which began the family tradition of putting out a table of hors d'oeuvres so she could cook the feast without having to stop and make lunch for everyone.  That table consisted of shrimp and cocktail sauce, pickled herring, raw oysters, cheeses and crackers, and California Onion Dip and potato chips.  It was wonderful!  (Except for the raw oysters which only my mother and grandfather--and later my husband--enjoyed.)

For a couple of days before Thanksgiving, whole loaves of bread would be open and spread out to get stale for dressing/stuffing.  Mom broke the stale bread into pieces and mixed it with sauteed onions and celery, with butter and broth and sage before she stuffed the bird.  She also fixed a separate dish of oyster dressing.

And...just for the holiday...Mom always used REAL butter instead of margarine in her mashed potatoes.  OMG!  The wonderful tastes!

Then, in late October of 1986, my mother had a "mild" stroke.  She was hospitalized, with the left side of her body somewhat paralyzed.  She was doing well in rehab and was just about ready to be sent home when she had some kind of a relapse.  They sent her back to acute care just before Thanksgiving.  She told me she didn't think she could stand not being home for the holiday.  Dad, of course, was going to make sure that Thanksgiving would still happen, so I took over.  He was in no condition to do what needed to be done.  It was an abbreviated Thanksgiving.  My sister and family couldn't be there.  She was in Missouri, helping her daughter with her newborn son.  I was fighting with my husband over things that had been festering for a month.  It wasn't a particularly happy time.

On Thanksgiving that year, I was sick.  I even wore a mask around my mom because I didn't want her to catch whatever it was that I had.  My brother, who had been there for the holiday, went home the day after.  My husband had gone to Indiana to visit his parents with his children from his first marriage, against our earlier agreement that we wouldn't split those poor kids among three families in four days.  (Very long story.)

Sparing the details, our mother died suddenly on the day after Thanksgiving that year.  For a long time, Thanksgiving was never quite the same.  Fortunately, time has healed the unhappy memories in favor of the happy ones.  My sister and I have kept the traditions, as best we can.  Our parents, grandparents, and our baby brother have all died.

Thanksgiving isn't all about past memories.  It's about NOW.  Today, I'm thankful for what I have.  Today, we are blessed and need to be thankful for that.  Today is the beginning of tomorrow.

Whether or not we are religious people, we need to express gratitude to whatever powers that be for all that we have.  When we turn our backs on thankfulness, we open ourselves to negativity.  May that never happen!

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 

What Do You Bring to the Thanksgiving Table?

Once upon a time, I was the Indiana State Coordinator for The Salvation Army's Emergency Disaster Services communications network--SATERN.  I'm not a Salvationist, but I believed in their mission and was friends with the founder of the network.  We worked hard to keep things going and alive.

I am an amateur radio operator--a ham.  I was encouraged by my "elmer" (mentor) to start a SATERN network on an HF band that he was on daily.  I introduced myself on that band, and the bad boy that everyone seemed to love, while drunk online every night, did everything he could to embarrass me.  I was the only female.  The first thing the bad boy said to me was, "When was the last time you slept with a man?"  I waited for someone to shut him down, but no one did.  Not even my "elmer" who had lured me there.  In fact, when the time came when someone wanted to report this bad dude to the FCC, I contributed.  He was given a year's banishment, and my dear elmer thought it wasn't fair.  Whatever.

Not a single radio operator on that band--not one--ever played out the real reason for amateur radio operations: to help.  I was trying to establish an emergency radio network but was shut down by the good ol' boy fraternity of accepting the locker room mentality.  I never went back.  My elmer seemed perplexed.  Huh??

Which brings me to my point.
I used to tell my students, and have also posted online, that if you are sitting on your haunches while the rest of the world is suffering, you have no room to criticize people in need.  Pick a charity.  Volunteer.  Do something.  Why?  Because it will happen to you.  It WILL happen to you.  Tornadoes, earthquakes, tsunamis, floods, fires--loss of job, abandonment, death in the family.  You name it.  If you survive those events intact, you are truly blessed.

Which brings me to my NEXT point.
Give because you can.  If you don't have money, give time.  If you don't have time or money, give love.  Bring something besides food to the Thanksgiving table.  Man does not live by bread alone.
In the name of all that is holy, look out for your neighbors because there will come a time when you will need them.

May God bless you with "enough"...what you need.  Nothing more; nothing less.  If you have enough for today, you are truly blessed.

Young Love vs. Old Love

"Everyone knows"--as our President would say--that the world is all about people aged 35 or younger.  Don't believe me?  Look at every magazine on the planet.  Look at TV commercials, Facebook memes, and everything that smacks of family.  Valentine's Day?  All about diamonds and flowers and young love.  Thirty-five and under.  Change my mind!

Young love is full of sexual tension, putting the best foot forward, wanting to please the other person because of wanting to attract him/her.  Egos are involved.  Physical attraction is huge.  Conquest.  Financial stability.  Family acceptance.  Equality in the household.  Chasing tail, then working one's own tail off the make ends meet to raise a family.  Needs to be met--everyone's.  Doing stupid things to keep a family together in spite of everything.

And then, one day--or many, many years later--something happens.  You get old.  Your spouse gets old.  Your spouse gets sick, and no matter how faithful and hard-working you are/were, your spouse dies, and you are alone for the first time in 50 years or more.  Then, out of the darkness arises someone you are interested in.  You weren't seeking a new relationship, but life is different now.  You don't have the "fullness of days" to hang around in misery.  (You can, but all that will happen is that you will die alone and lonely if you don't carpe diem.)

Old love isn't fraught with sexual tension.  You've raised your family.  You have fulfilled your vows of "until death do us part."  You have fought the good fight, run the race, and kept the faith.  Maybe the physical stuff doesn't work anymore, but hugs do.  What you seek in life isn't a sexual partner; you just need a loved companion.  Someone to do things with.  Someone to make you feel less alone.

Unfortunately, when you are older in life, family seems to think they know how you should behave.  They aren't thinking about you.  They are thinking of themselves, and it is so not fair!

My sister has been a widow for just over two years.  Her husband died of FTD dementia.  For at least the last five years of his life, she dealt with his needs and quirks, his combativeness, his irrationality.  Her entire world revolved around him.  (Do NOT be misled by the dementia commercials on television.  It isn't sweet and loving and comfortable to live with someone with dementia.  It gets ugly.  Very ugly.)  The truth is that my sister worked herself into the ground to attend to the needs of her husband and her adult family.  Mourning the loss of her husband started years before he actually died.  When he finally did pass, she was so very sick with pneumonia that we had to put off the funeral for a few days just to get her well enough to be there.  (She's a total trouper!)

For a lot of circumstantial reasons, my sister has reconnected with a gentleman from her past who also lost his spouse to a long-term cancer illness.  My best guess is that he, too, started his mourning process before his wife actually died.  The unfortunate part is that he has been alone for only about seven or eight months, and his children are pushing back.  He is trying to be sensitive to their feelings while addressing his own.  Who wins??  Only time will tell.

In the meantime, the drama and so-called offenses from family make these people walk a fine line between passion and diplomacy.  If they were in their 20s or below 35, no one would challenge them.  (We all know that doesn't work!)

If my sister and her delightful gentleman friend decide to call it quits, I pray that the reasons will be internal rather than from family members who selfishly care more about their own agendas rather than the happiness of their parent/grandparent.  My whole reasoning is: do those who object to the relationship want these two to spend the rest of their lives alone and lonely?

God works in mysterious ways.  I am praying that Old Love will win, in this case!



 

I Am Stunned

One of the members of my adult Sunday school class just showed up on my doorstep to deliver an envelope full of goodies that makes me humble.  What she delivered was probably $80 worth of things she probably can't afford by way of thanks for taking her places.  It makes me cry!

Emily is a woman alone, as I am.  For a number of weeks, she showed up in class with a walker because one of her knees wasn't working well.  And then she had the knee surgically replaced.  We prayed for her...and then came the time to put our money where our mouths were.

My co-grandma was doing a lot for Emily.  I wanted to relieve her some, since she also is taking care of a live-in son recently diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease.  Thus, I took on the Emily taxi thing...but in reality, I had no reason not to!  Honestly, I probably got more out of our ventures to Physical Therapy, haircuts, and trips to the grocery store than she did.  I came to know her a little bit better by our weekly trips.  She struggles the same that I do.

Yesterday, after quite a few weeks, she was finally released to drive.  Freedom!  And then she showed up on my driveway today like a Greek bearing gifts.  Dear Lord, I am humbled by her gifts!  I didn't take her places hoping for any thanks or remuneration!  I only knew that, were I in her situation, I would need the same help.

So...I wish her God's  blessings.  She would do the same for me.  In the meantime, I'm just stunned. 

This Blog

A few years before I retired from teaching, I had students that insisted I should be on Facebook so they could keep track of me.  I thought it was a sweet idea, so, with my daughter's help, I registered on FB.  Along about that same time, or shortly before, I also established this blog (short for web log).

In the beginning, I used the blog almost as a diary, not expecting anyone to read it.  It chronicled my daily activities and foibles in the same way a journal would, but, over time, it has changed.  Now, I write on topics more than just stream of consciousness things.   I am proud of some of my posts.  Some, not so much.  I am also much more aware of the fact that people DO read it and can find it on Internet searches, so I am a bit more careful about what I write, even though I want it to be a factual representation of how I think and feel.

But here is the question:  who cares how I think or feel??  Why do I write on this blog at all?
My zillion years of teaching taught me that people just long to be heard.  They want to know that they count, that they are needed and accepted.  They have opinions that have worth.  They have passions that need to be expressed.  They have feelings to mean something to others--that someone, somewhere, will understand.

I live alone.  There are days--in the winter, MANY days--that I don't come in contact with another human being.  Sometimes, the only way to express what I think or feel is to write in this blog.  It keeps my brain active at a time when I could easily just hibernate and disappear.  Although much of it is just my mind blatherings, there are a few jewels in the mud.  Maybe someone can take away something of value to him/her.  Maybe a light bulb will come on over someone's head.  Maybe my humble little life will encourage someone else to keep going.

Blogs are somewhat self-serving, but they really aren't narcissistic things.  Yes, I express myself without debate on here, but I also accept that I'm not the Queen of the Universe.  When I die, my child and grandchildren will have a testament to how I tried to live.  And that means all the world to me.

My Cinderella

I finally bit on the proverbial bullet a few months ago and decided that I needed help in maintaining my home.  I can take care of the laundry and the dishes and feeding myself--even dusting--but the bigger issues were going undone.  Some of them backed up, spiraling out of my control, which contributed to my growing sense of worthlessness.  In short, I decided that I needed a cleaning person.  No...not JUST a cleaning person.  I needed a Cinderella.

I reached out on a local Facebook page.  Immediately thereafter, my grandchildren arrived for a visit (which is rare), so I never really checked back on FB.  What I got, however, were two responses on FB Messenger from women who clean.  I responded to both, saying I would get back to them.  Only one actually followed up.  So, when the kids left, I contacted her.  We met.  I checked her references.  We agreed on prices and set up a schedule.  And that's how I met Cinder-Debbie.

Deb doesn't work for a cleaning service.  She is an independent worker.  She's in her early 60s--a little slip of a thing--with a Type A personality and energy to burn.  She is separated from her husband.  She is helping to support a live-in adult son with recovering addiction issues.  She has daughters and grandchildren, too.  But here's the deal:  she is totally aware of my issues (since she cleans for other old folks), anticipates what needs to be done, and does it!

To my utter amazement and gratefulness, she doesn't just do house cleaning.  She also does yard work.  She likes things to look nice.  So, today, with leaves totally covering my yard, I hired her to come (extra) to blow my leaves to the curb.  (Where I live in Plainfield, IN, the city has a free service that vacuums up leaves that are blown or raked to the curb.)  She's using her own blower!

Yes, I know I am paying her.  And yes, I am aware that some people prey on old folks.  But not Cinder-Debbie.  For instance, when she was here two weeks ago to clean, she noticed that I had a quart jar full of pennies.  She volunteered to take it to her bank to cash it in.  Today, she brought me the proceeds but was horrified that they didn't give the jar back to her and was determined to replace it.  (FYI, I have a ton of empty quart jars in a closet.)  She also brought a new rug to put inside my front door because my old rug had lost its rubber backing and was making a mess, slipping all over the place.  I said, "That rug had to have cost at least $20."  She said she would NEVER pay that kind of money for something like that, and would not tell me how much she did pay.  Also, when she is here, she gets really nervous if she sets something down on the floor, worried that I will trip over it.

Today--right now, as I type--she has blown the leaves, has picked up twigs, has raked the leaves into a vacuum-acceptable pile, and has cut down/pulled out the dead stuff under my fence.  I didn't ask her to do all of that.  She says she loves to do outside work...that it is her "therapy".

God bless the woman!  My Cinder-Debbie has become a welcome member of my extended family.  I consider myself blessed that we "serendipitously" found each other.  If she were just doing a job, I would pay her and be done with it.  But this woman is going above and beyond.  She is now a friend! 

Halloween, 2018

Each year on Halloween, I hang my bat wreath on the door, place the big bowl of candy next to the door, sweep the leaves from the sidewalk, plunk my jester hat (complete with bells and lights) on my head, then sit at my computer desk waiting for the ghoulies and ghosties to knock.  And when the onslaught is over, I prepare my After-Action Report about the highlights and lowlights of the evening's activities.

The weather is 53 degrees and has been gloomy/misty most of the day, although now dry for the costumed visitors.  I can officially say that there were more fallen leaves on the sidewalk to my door this year than there were last--but many less than the years previous to that.  We've had a slow autumn!

Most of the trick-or-treaters to darken my front stoop this evening have been the older variety.  One group was actually a party of eight younger teen girls.  Earlier, one lone boy had a voice that had changed into manhood.  (Now that I think of it, there were quite a few deep-voiced critters at the door.)  What I noticed this year, unlike some years, was that these older youngsters were well-behaved, well-mannered, and cheery.  One even turned back to wave at me as she reached the street upon departure.  That was nice.

Also--purely conjecture of course--I have observed that this may be the first year that I have failed to guess several costumes because...shall we say...society is passing me by?  I always try to establish what the children represent in their costumes.  I'm sorry to say, I missed a few this year!

Miss #1:  (Young man dressed up like a cardinal [bird])
Me:  Let's see...you are a cardinal!
Kid:  Nooooo....
Me:  (Thinking of my Alma Mater's mascot)  Then you're a redbird!
Kid:  Nooooo....
Kid:  I'm Angry Bird!
Me:  Of course!  I knew that!  HAHAHAHAHA!  (Truth be known, I had no clue.  I mean, I've heard of the game, but had never played it.  How was I supposed to know that?  DUH!)

Miss #2:  (Three children at the door.)  The tallest was the scarecrow, from The Wizard of Oz, in the cutest homemade scarecrow costume I've ever seen.  The second tallest was most obviously Dorothy from the same movie.  And the littlest one--maybe five years old, dressed in black and somewhat hiding behind the scarecrow--I guessed to be Toto, Dorothy's dog.  WRONG!  He stepped forward, stuck his chest out to show the word SWAT in big white letters and said, indignantly,  "I'm a SWAT guy!"  By way of excusing myself for my stupid error, I said, "But it would have been cute if you'd been Toto, because here is Scarecrow, and here is Dorothy.....  Or you could have been the lion or the tin man."  He looked at me with such innocence.  I could tell nothing was getting through, so
I said, "Do you have any idea what I'm talking about?"  He admitted that he had not the slightest notion.  I chuckled to myself.  Talk about feeling ancient!!

Miss #3:  (My granddaughter is just going to have to forgive me for this one.)  The young lady at the door was dressed as Hermione, a character from a Harry Potter book.  In my own defense, I've never read Harry Potter books, nor have I seen any of the movies...and didn't really get a good look at the costume before someone in her group volunteered who she was supposed to be.  If I'd had a few more seconds to think, I would have guessed "a character from Harry Potter".  Really.  I would have.  (That's my story.  I'm sticking to it!)

I also had a "near miss":  One kid took one look at me and realized that I could never guess who he was supposed to be, so he just blurted out that he was So-and-So, and even volunteered that So-and-So was a character in a computer game.  Thank you, kind young'un, for thinking fast on your feet and saving me from what would surely have been my Senile Embarrassment!

Also apparent on Halloween is how times have changed since I was a kid.  All of the younger children were accompanied by adults, who stood on the sidewalk by the street while their children approached the door.  MOST of those adults, while not trick-or-treating, were in costume.  When I was a kid, I had an older sister that was expected to take me trick-or-treating.  Our parents never went.  (I expect they enjoyed the hour or two of solitude!)  I think I would have been delighted if my folks had ever put on costumes to take us out shamelessly asking for candy at every door, but it was a different time.

I also notice parents' training when it comes to the little ones.  I won't give out candy to kids until they first say, "Trick or treat".  I want to keep the tradition alive.  If someone knocks and forgets to say it, I always ask, "What do you say"?  Both last year and this, I've had to coach the really young ones.  Most of the time, they say...."Please?"

Another encounter with a young cutie tonight showed what her parents were thinking.  My guess is that she was five or so.  She was with slightly older kids, but when she held out her bag, it was totally empty.  I commented on it.  She said, "I know.  That's because I dumped it in my mom's backpack."  I suspect she was required to do so.  Smart!  Like a money dump in a store, so there's not so much in the register in case of a robbery.  Kid deposits candy with Mom so Mom can dole it out later.  Kid can't eat it before Mom has a chance to inspect it.  Several problems solved!

And in the Cute Department, I had a T-or-T'er who arrived at the door in one of those huge Tyrannosaurus Rex costumes.  The only part of him that was visible was his face, from his ears forward.  OMG!  What an adorable little face it was!  Totally reminded me of my grandson at that age!  Hope he had a fun night!

The one downer I had was a woman--an adult--who showed up at the door.  There were two children there at the same time, but she didn't seem to be with them.  She barely even grunted at me.  I make it a point to give candy to anyone who knocks because we never know the circumstances.  Whatever...

My favorite door visitor was a teenaged young lady who wasn't in costume at all.  She was wearing her (Plainfield High School) marching Bands of America hoodie.  I commented on her non-costume.  She mumbled, "I'm masquerading as a band kid who actually has one night off."  I chuckled in recognition.  I know how hard and how long marching bands work, and this is competition season for them, which means even longer and harder hours.  I gave her double candy!

Halloween of 2018 is in the books.  I still have a few pieces of candy left, which are earmarked for the Homeless Feeding Mission that my co-grandparent Phil takes care of at our church.

May the ghost of Halloween turn into the saint of tomorrow (All Saint's Day) for you.  And I hope you had what is now known as a Happy Halloween!

And, of course, Happy Birthday in Heaven to my brother who would have turned 65 today.  Eligible for Medicare!  I miss you, Doug.

Staying Inside the Lines

Years ago, a man named Robert Fulghum published a book entitled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.  I'm sorry to admit that I never actually read the book, but I think I should have.  It contains the basic, simple truths of living in the world.  Among other things, Author Fulghum lists the following as things he learned in Kindergarten:

1. Share everything.
2. Play fair.
3. Don't hit people.
4. Put things back where you found them.
5. Clean up your own mess.
6. Don't take things that aren't yours.
7. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
8. Wash your hands before you eat.
9. Flush.

Later, he also mentions taking a nap every afternoon.  I'll drink to that!
I would respectfully suggest that he missed one thing that he learned in Kindergarten that maybe I didn't catch or he accidentally left out:  10.  Stay inside the lines.

What lines?? 
The coloring lines, of course!  In those very early years of learning and gaining control of your hands and fingers, you and I were all encouraged to color inside the lines of the figures we were bringing to life with crayons.  Oh, those wonderful crayons!  "Color inside the lines" was a common admonition.  In time, we learned.  I even learned to outline the lines, darkly, with the color I was going to use to color inside the lines.  To me, it made all the difference.   

Kindergarten also taught us that we were to walk the school halls in single-file lines behind the teachers, like little ducklings following the mother duck.  Act up in line or get out of line and you were scolded and/or punished.  If you were really good, you got to be the line leader--a position of considerable pride and envy.  (Truth be known, many unworthy kids end up toward the beginning of the line just to be close to the teacher for control purposes.  No teacher worth his/her salt EVER lets an unruly student bring up the rear!)

Walking in lines in school is all about discipline and control.  The teacher is one adult in charge of 25 (more or less) children.  If you've ever worked with a group of two or three young children at a time, you surely understand the need for lines.  I was behind a woman with two young boys in the check-out line at the grocery store today.  Oh my!  Try more and see what you think!

The ability to stay within the lines is a marker in society.  If you aren't patient enough to do it, you are "in line" for anxiety and disappointment.  We stay in lines at the grocery store, the drive-thru, the bank, the theater.  Even at restaurants.  It's all about taking turns and sharing...and being fair.  

It's also an applicable metaphor for a way of being in the world.  You can be a jerk to assert your demands on society, or you can decide to be kind.  I've read too many stories about people who decided to live their lives outside of the lines because it is their right to do so, but then complain when they lost their jobs or their loved ones gave up on them.  

Yes, dear Americans, you have rights.  You don't have to stay within society's lines; HOWEVER, if you represent a church, a school, a business, a club, or any other entity whose very existence is based on its good name, you have to stay inside the lines.  If you don't, they are going to cut ties.  Period.  Your "rights" don't mean crap in those cases.

Yes, the squeaky wheel does get the grease.  Not everyone who plays by the rules wins.  Still, the whole idea of a conscience has a place.

Why do I write all of this?  I am angry that the president of our country has thrown all rules to the wind.  He is outside of every line that I've always considered civil and respectful and honest.  The only lines to acknowledge are the ones HE has established.  The rest of us who believe otherwise can just go pound sand.  You will not witness me calling him names, however, because he is the president of our country, and I stay inside the lines--lines that even he can't stay within.  

Although I end this on a negative note, I'm really not feeling so badly about things.  I still have faith in the goodness of people.  I still have faith that MOST people stay inside the lines.  Wisely or foolishly, following the rules of civility, decency, and respect will go so much farther in the long run than running amok on the coloring sheet.  

I may be a dinosaur in modern society, but I do care about the rules of law, the rules of fairness, and the rules of staying inside the lines.  What does that make me?  A brontosaurus???  

Music Hath Charms...

Just slightly two years ago, we buried my brother-in-law.  I humbly officiated the services, but my heart was only in it for my sister.   I had asked if a bagpiper could be present at the gravesite because my BIL was originally Canadian and loved the bagpipes, as I do.  The funeral home had one they call on, and my sister was willing to pay for it.

The day we buried Roger was a mild and sunshiny day in September.  The piper was already in place as we gathered at the graveside.  He soon started with Amazing Grace, which is what we had requested...and then he played something else.  Something strangely familiar but NOT Amazing Grace.  Long after we returned home and were relaxing after the sad services, I got online on YouTube and typed "funeral bagpipes" in the search engine.  Instantly, the song of the piper appeared and made me cry:  Going Home.  Roger was "going home" to the Master, and all the rest of us could do was celebrate that.  I'll never, ever forget how the piper finished his performance by simply walking away toward the woods, fading into the distance.  What a powerful moment it was!

I am also reminded of another family funeral song.  My favorite uncle--my mother's brother--was a career Army officer.  When he passed, it had already been established that the Gary Owen would be played at his funeral.  In order to find it on YouTube, it has to be recognized as garyowen.  If you hear it, you will recognize it.  Every movie with an old-fashioned cavalry in it plays the Gary Owen.  Now, every time I hear it, I am reminded of my uncle whose life was devoted to the United States Army.  May God rest his soul.

My turn will come, some day soon.  I'm trying to decide what song I want to represent my life.  There are so many that I love!!  Time will tell....  Time will tell.

My Little House on a Slab

Once upon a time, I was a married lady.
We had moved to Indiana from Illinois so that my then-husband could fill an administrative position in a school district in Cloverdale, IN.
We started out in a rental house, then bought a nice home in the community, but everything soon went awry when his eye turned away from me and to his school secretary.
I filed for divorce.

I had not been an Indiana resident long enough to know where to go or what to do.  Guided by a colleague, Phyllis, I set my eyes on Plainfield, and rented part of what is called a "double" in Indiana but the rest of the world calls a "duplex".  It was big enough for my daughter and me, but it wasn't mine.

In the divorce, I had willingly given up the Cloverdale home because I had no desire to stay in the community and could not have afforded the house by myself, but a huge part of my heart said that our child should not have to suffer in a rented duplex while her father had the luxury of a house with 2,000 square feet of living space.

The owner of the duplex was a real estate agent who had faith in me as an educator.  After about seven months, I began to wonder if there wasn't someplace I could buy.  I called and talked to her.  I asked if she could find a house for me and my daughter, and if she would be willing to let me break the lease for a sale.  She was willing.  She directed me to a couple of homes in the Hillcrest subdivision--both of which had similar floor plans.  One had a half-bath that the other didn't have, and a covered patio, both of which were a big draw for me.  Although it didn't have central air conditioning, I figured I could always add AC but that it would be far too expensive to add another bathroom...so I went for the one with the extra half-bath.  The gal directed me about how to put in an offer, and the rest is history.  I will never forget her saying, "Peg, this is the only house you will ever need."  I think there were times when both Meg and I wished we had more space, but the gal was right.  We managed.

I needed a downpayment, and the kind of loan available to me required that the downpayment be a gift rather than a loan.  I approached my father.  Dad really, really wanted me to move back to the farm in Illinois.  He agreed to give me the money, saying only, "I suppose this means you'll become a Hoosier"...and he spat out the Hoosier word as if it were a curse.  In spite of that, he didn't even blink about giving me $5,000 to put down on my little house-on-a-slab.  Since the house was all on one level, I just knew that I would move him in with me when the time came.  It didn't happen...

We moved in at the end of March of 1992.  As soon as summer came, I contracted to have central air put in and taught summer school to help pay for it.  Over the years of living in the little house, things went wrong.  (They usually do!)   I always, always had one or more friends who helped fix things.  I almost lost the house once to foreclosure when stupid things happened.  All I could do was contact the mortgage company and beg for forbearance. It worked, but for almost a year, I was making close to double house payments just to catch up.  It was a horrible time.  I lost a lot of sleep over this but saved my house!

This tiny little house was more than just a place for us to live.  It became the roots that I never had as a kid...the roots that I really wanted my own child to have after several home moves that had her unnerved.   After the year 2000, she was old enough to begin to test her wings to move on.  She married and had children and left my nest.  I dug in.  I wore out a couple of cars driving to where she was at any given time, thinking I could help, while always maintaining a place for us to be.

Along about 2007, my daughter left her husband and moved in with me, with the children.  I didn't know it was coming.  Had no clue.  (Neither did he.)  But I did everything I could do to make my little house a home for them.  We remodeled the house to create bedrooms for us all.  She provided most of the funds through school grants, etc.  It worked until she fell in love with a foreign student out of Indiana State University.  She gave up custody of the children to their father in a horrible way, and followed the student to California.  I was devastated, but I still had my little home that had housed us all.  In time, all of that changed again.   They moved back to the Midwest as husband and wife, then regained custody of the children through some not great circumstances, and things settled down.

Through it all, I've still been in my little house.  Since I bought the house, I've done everything I could to keep it, in spite of lack of funds, made somewhat worse when I retired in 2009.
Then yesterday, in talking to a rep from the mortgage bank, I found out that there is such a thing as "netting the escrow".  That means that there is more money in escrow than the balance on the account.  I learned that I could direct the bank to pay off the mortgage with the escrow money, seven months early...which I did today.  Thus, after 26 years of struggle, I am suddenly to be the owner, free and clear, of my tiny little house on a slab of concrete.  Am I happy about that?  You betcha!

Although I am patting myself on the back a lot, I am soooo grateful for all of the people who helped me get through, starting with my father's gift back in 1992.  All that I have, I've been gifted.  Except for the stubbornness to push on, which came from my mother and grandmother.  (I guess those are gifts, too!)  Until I have the papers in my hand that say that my mortgage is paid in full, I'll hold my breath, but they're coming.  Praise God, they're coming!  And praise God for sticking with me all these years!

Lights and Sirens

Am I the only one that gets goosebumps when emergency vehicles force me to pull over and wait until they pass?

Yesterday, I got into a mini-traffic jam due to an accident on the roadway going to a lunch date.  Bother!  When I got close to the crash site, I was humbled.  It was a nasty one, on a road with a 45 mph speed limit.  A car had hit the rear of a box van, and the car was totally destroyed.  If the car's driver survived, I'd be surprised.  Going past things like that kind of slows one down, ya know?

In my granddaughter's Catholic Phase of her development (an entirely different post), she would hear sirens and say, "Somebody's in trouble."  She would cross herself and say a little prayer for whatever or whomever the sirens were for.  I was so impressed by her innocent care for those she didn't even know.

Once upon a time, those lights and sirens were for me.  I got up on August 1, 2009, and didn't feel well.  Things weren't working right.  I finally told my daughter (who was living with me then) that I needed medical attention.  We weren't thinking properly, so instead of calling for an ambulance for indistinct symptoms, she drove me to the fire department, at my request.  They put me in an ambulance to take me to the hospital.  No big deal.  Nothing going on, really.  No lights and sirens along the way...until we got close to the hospital when my heart decided to act up.  The EMT asked for the driver to turn on lights and sirens "just because he didn't want to be stuck in traffic".  The real reason, of course, is that I was having the heart attack that my earlier symptoms had foretold, right there in the ambulance.  My poor daughter, who was right behind the ambulance, got confused, looking for the emergency vehicle that was sounding off.  It was right in front of her and contained her mother!

To this day, whenever I see lights and hear sirens, I do what the law tells me to do.  Whoever is "in trouble" deserves this.  I get the same feeling when I am in a funeral caravan, and drivers on the opposite side of the road pull over out of respect for the departed that they don't even know.

Bless those that respond to emergencies.  Bless those who need the help.  Bless those who need the rest of us to understand what got them to that place of respect.  May the lights and sirens never have to be for you!

Mental Health

Just another day in America:  yet another mass shooting, the third in the span of 24 hours.  Everyone is pointing the finger of blame at gun laws, but the real issue is mental health.

If one is mentally ill, it means they are crazy, right?  Not so much, but that's exactly why people don't seek treatment for the way they feel, mentally, when they would absolutely seek treatment if they don't feel well, physically.  An illness or physical injury can be fixed, but an illness in the brain just doesn't compute.  We avoid those folks.

I am certainly no scholar of mental illnesses, but I understand that 90% of us avoid treatment for difficulties of the brain because we are afraid that we will be labeled as crazy, psychopathic, sociopathic, autistic, or otherwise just out of the norm.

So, what conditions make up mental illness?  What are the labels?
Depression.  Levels:  suicidal, bipolar, clinical, situational.
Brain Injury.  Causes:  birth accidents, car accidents, serious concussions, brain bleeds.
Autism.  Levels: a huge spectrum of functionality, from high to low.
Personality Disorders.  Schizophrenia, Post Partum psychosis, Narcissism, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Reactive Attachment Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder..and the list is endless.
Dementia.  Alzheimer's, Fronto-Temporal Degeneration, Lewy Body Dementia, all play a part in caring for elder loved ones.

In my 40 years of teaching, I encountered all of these with students.  Hell, in my 71 years of living, I encountered them all without benefit of youthful ignorance.  If I were to make an unscientific guess, I would say that 30% of the human population suffers from some sort of mental illness.  That, of course, does not factor in alcohol or drugs which change human cognition.  Add those, and the incidence goes way up.  My best guess is that less than 10% of sufferers actually seek professional help.  Why?  Everything costs money, and mental health treatment is quite expensive and lengthy, and not always covered by insurance.  Plus, even people who think they could use treatment wouldn't seek it because they would think of themselves as "crazy" and/or don't want to throw a pill at the problem.

Yesterday, I had occasion to talk to a doctor about my health.  At one point, he asked about why I had never taken advantage of a certain medication that could have helped me.  I confessed that it had scared me because, at the time, I was at a particularly dangerous episode in my mental health, and one of the side effects of the drug was the potential for suicidal depression.  I told him that I desperately had called every place I could think of  in those days to find help for myself, but didn't need a pill to push me over the edge..and that's when he went from treatment mode to listening mode.  In short order, he confessed to me that his mother was schizophrenic and that his family had suffered greatly from it...and before my appointment was over, this man said, "I am here to help you.  You are not alone."  You can't possibly know how much that meant to me.

I can't fix the problems of the world, but I wish I could!
There is not a soul on the planet that wouldn't benefit from mental therapy.  Not one!
And today marks a 24-hour period with three mass shootings in the United States.
How can we help our fellow Americans deal with their anger and disappointments??

I want my legacy to be more about how to help than how to criticize.  Please help me spread the word!
     

Lullabye to My Baby

When my daughter was born, we lived in a rented Craftsman home in Monee, Illinois.
The upstairs of that house contained two bedrooms and an under-eave closet room with no closet accessories.  That under-eave room had a bare light bulb that hung down, slightly, with a chain to turn it on, and was only otherwise big enough to contain a changing table for the baby and a rocking chair.  I spent many an hour in that little space, changing diapers and nursing/rocking my baby, sometimes in the wee hours of the night.  I was often beyond tired.  I sat and rocked and nursed, taking care of my child, wondering in my fatigue, who was going to take care of ME.  As I rocked, I also hummed or sang, and my lullabye of choice was a quiet little song:

The moon is out; the stars are out.
It's time to go to bed.
I'm so glad you have this place
To lay your little head.

Have a deep and peaceful sleep.
Dream away the hours.
When you wake, the sun will come
To kiss the morning flowers.

Go to sleep, my little one,
Beneath the Evening Star.
You will always have a place,
No matter where you are.

We didn't have the Internet in those days (1979), so I don't have a clue where I knew the song from, but I have found it on YouTube.  And although I remember the words a tiny bit differently, here it is:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrxBf4XMPK8

And it still makes me cry thinking about those quiet simple moments between mama and baby, who is and always was the light of my life.

I Am Who I Am

Just had a lightbulb come on over my head.  I confess that I rely too much on my own understanding to make sense of things, sometimes.

I've been teaching my adult Sunday School class for a few weeks now.  This time, we are studying a book by Dr./Rev. Adam Hamilton called John, the Gospel of Light and Life.  In it, there was a chapter about the "I am" statements of Jesus, which the author suggests relate back to God's message to Moses when he asked by what authority he should approach the Israelites with the Ten Commandments.  God told him to tell them, "I am who I am."

Yeah...okay...well, I am who I am, too....so what?  If someone were to ask you for your personal credentials, you would say, "I am a mother/father; I am a teacher/whatever; I am a child of God"; you are whatever in the world you are.  But what does it MEAN??

As a kid, I questioned everything.  If my mother told me I couldn't do something that I wanted to do, my immediate question was "WHY?"  I think I fairly why'd her to distraction.  After a few tries at the why thing on my part, Mom would finally respond, "Because I said so!"  That still didn't satisfy my need to know why, but I did know that when Mom got to that point, the argument was over.  My mother was establishing her authority without need to explain herself.  She was the parent.  I was the kid.  Nuff sed!!

And now I think it surely must be the same with biblical authority.  Whether or not you believe in a god, there is some authority in the universe that declares, "Because I said so."  You can agree or disagree.  You can challenge all you want.  The end result, however, is that you can't pray away hurricanes or tornadoes or earthquakes or floods.  You aren't in control.  God/Nature is.  And I think that is my new understanding of the Old Testament explanation of God.  The Great Parent, I Am Who I Am, who states, "Because I said so."  No other explanation needed or works.

Mom would be so proud.

Judging Others

"We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their behavior." 
               ~~Stephen M. R. Covey, from his book, The Speed of Trust: The One Thing That Changes                       Everything.

As Thomas Paine, American patriot, once said, "These are the times that try men's souls."
There are things going on in our country right now--not all political, but mostly--that are trying my soul.  Americans--Christian Americans--are judging other Americans, Christian or not, and it isn't pretty.  Name-calling, violence, public shaming, boycotts.  Sometimes I think we have lost our collective mind.  The hypocrisy is brutal.

I hate hypocrisy.  People who live in glass houses are throwing stones at others.  Some of us don't tend to the "log" in our own eyes before seeing the "splinter" in others'.  Every single day, I read things or hear things that remind me that we are NOT the land of the free and the home of the brave.  We are NOT a Christian nation.  We are a selfish lot of flawed human beings, pretending to hold up a standard for others to follow, but your standard isn't worthy if it doesn't match up with my standard.  And we will stubbornly fly that flag as long as our own ox isn't gored.  I could give example after example of this, but it would then become a book.  Ain't nobody got time for that!

So here I am, sitting in my little house-on-a-slab, making my lesson plan for my adult Sunday School class that I will teach again this week, and reading outrageous comments made by our president on a daily basis.  And the news.  Oh God...the news.  My blood pressure seriously goes up.  I have to avoid the news.  I mean, I can actually feel the anxiety rise in my being when I read the stories of the events of the day or the trends of society--especially when I understand that I am now a Senior Citizen who is a throwaway in American life.  I'm old.  Who cares about old people?  I am always especially offended by the hypocrisy of people who pretend to care.

See if you can follow the chronology of what is to follow.  (It's how my mind works.  I can't help it!)  A couple of weeks ago, I lost a dear friend to an unexpected death.  He was the sole caretaker of his seriously demented wife of 47 years, even though they have two adult children and an adult grandchild.  Only one of those children (the daughter) and her adult daughter (the grandchild) lives nearby.  The daughter thought that her father should just put her mother in a nursing home and be done with it.  He couldn't afford it, and probably wouldn't have done it if he could.  Thus, the daughter and grandchild just never came around.  He could barely get around due to knee joints that no longer existed, but he put off surgery because he would have no one to take care of his wife while he recovered.  His daughter might have offered to help do housework or do grocery shopping for him in order to help lighten his load, but she wasn't about that.  Eventually, he decided that he no longer had a choice but to make arrangements for his wife and to have knee replacement surgery.  He did.  And then he died.

I had such anger in my heart about his selfish daughter.  (Still do.)  The back story about her and her child, which I will spare you, is complicated.  My friend did so much for them both, and when he needed them, he got no help.  In my grief, I was complaining about this online to my own daughter, and she wrote me one line:  "Hard to judge others."  Well!  That shut off the conversation, didn't it??!  No sympathy in that line.  Not for me...not for my friend...but it set my mind to thinking about my feelings.  What possible excuse could there be for my friend's snippy daughter to ignore his needs?  I don't know.  What I do know is that a light bulb came on over my head--an epiphany, of sorts.  A whole lifetime of judging others settled right down on my shoulders, and the weight didn't feel good.

So, who is the hypocrite now?
I have always prided myself on being able to accept others for who/what they are, but I'm thinking now that it was part of my own special internal perception of the way things should be.  I have long had a problem with denying the elephant in the living room.  If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's a duck...right?  I can forgive behavior if forgiveness is requested, but what about when it isn't?  If I accept unacceptable behavior from others, does that make it okay?  Will I become a doormat for people to run over and stomp on?  Will others close to me?  Are they seeing the forest for the trees?  Or must I provide the standard on which the flag of truth flies?  And just what makes me think that I must be the standard-bearer of truth and honesty?

I am humbler now.  I will try harder not to be the embodiment of what I detest in others.  I sure do need help!

Baby Bumps

I am a Reddit.com reader.  That is to say that I am what is known as a lurker.  I get lost in Reddit on a daily basis, but I don't have an account on there, so I don't post or vote.  I just read.   It helps to keep me somewhat abreast of the rest of the world.  Some of it I pay no attention to--like the gaming sub-topics.  Many of the posts in other sub-topics (known as "subs") are profane, which I don't care for, but I am a dinosaur to the rest of the world because I am OLD.  (That's simply another blog post!)

Yesterday, I happened onto a sub called Baby Bumps.  It's frequented by pregnant women.  (I am now happily out of that league!)  One pregnant contributor to the sub posted about the forbidden foods that she was missing and asked other contributors if they had fantasies about what they wanted to do or ingest after they deliver.  Oh my!  The dozens and dozens of responses caused me to understand that things sure have changed since 40 years ago when I was a pregnant mom!

In reading that sub, I put together a list of things that are now forbidden for our human baby factories; to wit:
*No smoking.
*No alcohol.
*No really hot baths/showers.
*No hot tubs.
*No raw bean sprouts.
*No raw vegetables that are not very carefully washed.
*No unpasteurized cheeses.
*No deli meats.
*No high-mercury fish, like tuna.
*No sushi or any other uncooked meats.
*No rare or anywhere near rare steaks.
*No raw oysters.
*No eggs with runny yolks.
*No exposure to cat litter boxes or other animal feces.
*And...of course...no medicines, including those to relieve migraine headaches, nausea, or any other condition that is not being monitored by the doctor.
*And those who suffer from Gestational Diabetes are doubly screwed because they also have to limit sugars/carbohydrates.

Wow.  Just wow.
Most of the contributors missed beers and wines and cheeses and sushi.  They have already put in their list of desires for the day after they have delivered.  Some can't wait to take scalding hot baths.  Others just want a whole bottle of whatever desired wine or beer that they don't want to/won't share.  And, oh my, the cheeses that they miss!

I am struck by how things have changed in a mere four decades since I was preggers.  In those days, the main focus was not to drink to excess or smoke to excess...and, of course, the medicine thing.  My then-husband tattled on me to the OB/GYN at one appointment because I was still smoking...but the doc told me/us that as long as I was keeping it under a pack a day, all was well.  (That thinking has changed 100%.)  I also drank wine a little, but it was self-limiting because my unborn child took up so much space in my belly that I could scarcely breathe, much less eat/drink, without major heartburn.

If I were to make this a political, sexist rant, I would ask how many men, were they the incubators of the human race, would survive nine months of these restrictions without caving in.  As it is, I'll keep things civil and just be thankful that I'm not a breeder in these days.

It's now amazing to me that human reproduction has survived at all through the centuries before modern medicine!

What Happens to Hurricanes?

On March 9th of this year, I made a post on this blog about having brunch with my friend Ryan and his wife, Bonnie, entitled "Breakfast with Hurricane Bonnie".  After I wrote it, I shared it with Ryan, who liked it so much that he shared it with Bonnie's five sisters.

Bonnie, the focus of the post, has Lewy Body Dementia and is also mostly blind.  She is a mere shell of her former self, but Ryan kept her at home, caring for her every need.  It isn't always pretty when a man is in charge of a woman's care, but the man did everything he could, in spite of horrible knee pain.  He could barely get around.

I've had a tiny bit of experience with caregivers of folks with dementia.  What I wrote in that old post was:  "There is no happy ending.  This is one of those progressive things that only ends with the loss of a loved one, cognitively, long before he/she is gone, physically."

What I didn't anticipate was that the ending would be so different than what one would expect.

Ryan finally decided to have knee replacement surgery.  He couldn't be laid up with no one to care for Bonnie, so he planned ahead, putting Bonnie in the same nursing home/rehab center where he would be for his convalescence until they could both go home.  This was an out-of-pocket expense.  He figured two weeks, max.  He had the surgery this past Monday and was reportedly recovering nicely...and then he died. Bonnie didn't die; Ryan did. 

Never mind that my heart is broken.  My own feelings aside, what is to become of Bonnie now?  The only person who loved her unconditionally--in spite of her children--is gone.  I know just enough about dementia sufferers to comprehend that there is just enough cognitive comprehension left for them to know things aren't good.  The last time I saw Bonnie, she wept and apologized about her upset when her food didn't come soon enough.  She knew her reaction wasn't "right"...

Will they tell Bonnie that Ryan is gone?
If they do, will she understand?
Does she know that she will never be able to go home again?
Who will care for her?  Will they actually care about her??
What will go on in her scrambled brain?  
What is to become of this woman whose very life has been in the hands of a man who just died?
Do those of us who live in a normal world have any comprehension about the world of those who simply can't help themselves?  Do we throw them away??

Although it goes against my grain, I am praying for Bonnie--for God's mercy.  You may translate that however you wish.  There is no happy ending for her.  I just pray that this woman doesn't outlive her husband for long.  He gave everything he had to help her.  I ask the Good Lord to make things easier for her, and him posthumously.  

And may God have mercy on us all.   

The Bucket List

Back in 2009, just before I retired from 40 years of teaching, my daughter asked me to think about my dearest dreams about what I wanted to do or see or have in retirement, if I could.  I was stymied.  All my adult life, my "dreams" were always tethered by my pocketbook.  Surely she wasn't suggesting that she could provide me with the things on my bucket list!  Worse yet, I didn't really have a bucket list.

Sure, I would have loved to go to the Holy Land, to stand in places where Jesus stood.  I had interest in ancient Rome and ancient Greece, too...and the pyramids of Egypt.  Those all would have been nice.  I also understood that the United States has so many treasures to be seen that one never needs to leave the country in order to be dazzled by wonderful sights and experiences.  Thus, when my daughter Megan asked about my retirement heart's desires, I was mostly focused on what was possible rather than what I knew was financially impossible.  I think I blurted something like, "I've always wanted a piano."

Funny thing about pianos.  They are big and hard to move.  I've had a piano before but had to sell it before moving because my then-spouse didn't want to move it.  (That was also part of why I never got to do the ancient cities and places while married.  With him, vacation was camping/fishing.  Anything more or less than that was unacceptable.)  The other issue about the piano deal is that I don't really play.  I had, maybe, three months of lessons back in fifth grade.  After that, I was self-taught.  I only played well enough to bang out a few favorite hymns, but I kept trying.  It soothed me; entertained me for hours.  And probably annoyed the daylights out of my family from fifth grade on.  Asking for a piano would have been unreasonably silly, so that came off my retirement bucket list early on.

To this day, I'm not sure what my daughter was after when she was asking me about my heart's desires upon retirement.  I retired a couple of years earlier than I should have because she and my two grandchildren were living with me, and I felt that my presence was needed at home.  Four months after retirement and three months after my heart attack, she knocked the slats out from under me by giving up custody of the children to their father and leaving for California with her then-boyfriend.  It threw me into a years-long depression that I am not totally over to this day.  Things have changed so much for the better.  We are good now, I think.  Still, the closer I get to my own demise, the more I wonder about what I want to do or see before I croak.

Thus, I have compiled a reverse Bucket List.  Instead of talking about what I haven't done or seen, I want to talk about what I have.  My early life as a Navy dependent provided many of these.  Some were purely accidental.  In any case, observe Peggy's Reverse Bucket List, in no particular order (and probably very incomplete).

1.  Have seen a for-real bullfight in Tijuana, Mexico.
2.  Lived in Japan for nearly a year, a mere 12 years after the end of WWII.  (Sasebo.)
3.  Stayed at the Frank Lloyd Wright (earthquake proof) Imperial Hotel in Tokyo.
4.  Walked the grounds of the Japanese Imperial Palace in Tokyo.
5.  Had a Japanese friend who couldn't speak English (nor could I speak Japanese.
6.  Ate Omochi at my girlfriend's house during the Japanese New Year.
7.  Saw a street sumo wrestling match in the middle of downtown Sasebo, Japan.
8.  Learned a Japanese folk dance and have a custom made kimono with accessories from those days.
9.  Crossed the Pacific Ocean four times, (over and back twice), on Navy ships.  Crossed the International Date Line twice.
10.  Have been to a Japanese pearl farm.
11.  Saw flying fish and porpoises following our ships.
12.  Lived in Hawaii for three months while my dad's ship was in dry dock there.  (The USS Arizona was still just a wreck in the harbor.  No memorial yet.)
13.  Have seen Diamondhead Crater, the Pali, and the Blow Hole in Hawaii.
14.  Learned a traditional Hawaiian hula.  Little Brown Gal.
15.  Have sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge three times--once on our way out to sea for Japan, and twice on a tour boat, under and back.
16.  Have seen the Blue Angels practicing their air maneuvers over the ocean in California and in air shows.  Have seen stealth bombers several times; the Thunderbirds in air shows.  Experienced B-52 bombers flying over our house in California almost daily.
17.  Have seen both oceans.  Atlantic as a visitor; Pacific as a resident.
18.  Have seen the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians, the Smokies, the Bighorns, the Cascades, and the Olympics.  Have also seen four of the five Washington State volcanoes.
19.  Have been at the top of Pike's Peak and the summit of Mount Evans.
20.  Have been to Disney World and Kennedy Space Center twice.
21.  Have been to Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, Death Valley (where is was 120 degrees), Hoover Dam, Yellowstone, Arches, Monument Valley, Mesa Verde, Mono Lake, Glacier, Mount Rushmore, the Badlands, Niagara Falls, Starved Rock, the Petrified Forest, Big Basin Redwoods, Hoh Rainforest, Olympic--all national or state parks and/or places of interest.
22.  Have been to the top of the Sears/Willis Tower in Chicago, the St. Louis Arch in St Louis, and the Space Needle in Seattle.
23.  Have been in Washington, DC, on July 4th.  Have toured the White House, been to the Vietnam Memorial, Arlington National Cemetery, the WWII Memorial, the Holocaust Museum, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Ford's Theater, the house where President Lincoln died, have seen the original copy of the Declaration of Independence, the National Archives, the Library of Congress, and General Washington's Mt. Vernon home.  The Aerospace Museum, and the Smithsonian.
24.  Have seen the Oklahoma City Bombing Memorial in OKC, and was present with The Salvation Army in Terre Haute, Indiana, when Timothy McVeigh was executed for perpetrating the event.
25.  Survived a ruptured brain aneurysm (2007) and a heart attack (2009), with no lasting effects.
26.  Explored Plymouth, MA, complete with "the rock" and the Mayflower replica.
27.  Have had many successful vegetable gardens and have canned/frozen the fruits of my labors for future consumption.
28  Have spent many hours in a fishing boat, and just a short time as a crab fisher-person.
29.  Birthed a baby.
30.  Survived a bad divorce.
31.  Explored primitive caves in Central Indiana--cave country.
32.  Was employed as an on-set tutor of a minor actress in a Hollywood movie being filmed in my town at the time.  (Town:  Pontiac, IL.  Student:  Melissa Domke.)  Rubbed elbows with Jamie Lee Curtis, Patrick Swayze, Raymon Bieri, Troy Donahue, Johnny Cusack, C. Thomas Howell, and others.  Movie title:  Grandview USA.  (Pretty much a Grade B flick...or worse.)
33.  Was the first woman in the USA to attend National Camp School for the Boy Scouts of America.  34.  Became an amateur radio operator, Tech License, in 1997.  Achieved Extra Class status a couple of years later.
35.  Bought a small house in Indiana that has been my roots for 26 years.
36.  Ate dinner in a private home in Oak Park, IL, with the entire Vienna Boys' Choir.
37.  Have taught English and speech to American children for 40 years...and it isn't over yet.  I still get requests from former students to help them form their thoughts and feelings in writing.
38.  Am the mother and grandmother of beautiful people, and mother-in-law to one.  They are my life and my raison d'etre.
39.  Have been to New Salem State Park in IL, several times, plus Lincoln's Tomb.  Also went to the Lincoln Presidential Library a couple of times, and Lincoln's home several times.
40.  Weathered a typhoon in Japan and the near-hit of a tornado in Indiana.
41.  Have served as a Sunday school teacher (both children and adults), Vacation Bible School teacher, chairwoman of a church long-term planning committee, Youth Director, Choir Director, choir member, and Assistant Church Historian.
42.  Have had lead roles in four musicals and three plays, and a solo in an Easter cantata.
Endured the assassinations of the 60s, the bombings of the 90s, the World Trade Center horror of the 2000s, and oh so many more historic disasters of the USA and the world.
43.  Was a Girl Scout from 2nd thru 9th grade, and a GS leader for two years.
44.  Have been to the Indianapolis 500 race dozens of times, in the same glorious seats.
45.  Have seen Fujiyama in Japan several times, and magnificent Mount Rainier many times--both volcanoes of particular grandeur and recognizability.
46.  Have seen the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean at Vero Beach, Florida, and set over the Pacific Ocean at San Francisco, California.
47.  I have officiated at the funerals of two loved ones.

Looking back, I am in awe of all that I have seen and done.  Of course, there are so many other things I wish I could have done in life, but I gratefully accept that I have had so many more opportunities than others have ever had.  My poor little list doesn't do justice to my experiences, and now that I am mostly disabled, whatever bucket list I might have had is now moot.  I can even find all kinds of excuses why those remaining experiences are no longer necessary.  I have never seen the Statue of Liberty, for instance, but I have convinced myself that I would be disappointed were I not approaching it as a refugee/immigrant on a boat by sea.  Considering the disappointing attitude of the current governmental administration in the US right now, I fear the statue would look too small and representative of hypocrisy.  Do I need it on my Bucket List?  Not anymore!

No...if I were to die today, I would have no reason to feel cheated.  I haven't done it all, but if we become wise from our experiences and opportunities, I surely have wisdom!  Life hasn't always been easy, but I have been blessed.  My Reverse Bucket List reminds me that I can die happy! 

Domestic Archaeology

Whenever family is here--which isn't often--they leave me little remembrances of their presence.  I usually don't discover these things until days or weeks after they've left.  The last archaeological "dig" revealed socks that my grandson had kicked off his feet a year ago.  A year!  They were buried in the couch cushions and were only discovered when my new cleaning gal found them as she vacuumed under there.  (Shows you how often I do that!)

To be honest, no house guests are free of the sin of leaving things behind, but my grandson wins the prize.  Virtually every time he is here--about once a year--he leaves a trail of socks.  He was just here last week.  I was determined to keep vigil to make sure that both he and his socks made it home intact.  I made him check under the couch and under his bed.  Victory!  Or so I thought.  I delivered him to his father at a meeting spot in northern Indiana at the end of our visit on Saturday.  On Sunday, I discovered a balled-up Ryan sock on the fireplace hearth.  Whaaaat????  How did we not see that??  It's as if Ryan is a modern-day Hansel, but instead of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way back to Grandma's, he leaves a trail of socks!

So far, the domestic archaeology has only revealed his comb and one sock, but I haven't really looked yet.  Who knows what other treasures I may find?

The Little Thrills of LIfe

I don't get many chances to be thrilled by things, but there are events every year that always make my day, no matter how often they happen.  In no particular order:

1.  The first appearance of robins in the neighborhood in the spring.  Gives me hope that weather will begin to improve!

2.  The appearance of early-spring plants.  My sedam shows up long before spring does, but I still feel good when it does.

3.  Watching hummingbird(s) take food from my feeders.  Makes my efforts to feed them worthwhile!  Every.  Single.  Time.

4.  Hearing a symphony play a familiar, rousing song.  Especially around the Fourth of July.  And, of course, fireworks that say, "Happy Birthday, America"!

5.  Being with family, however I can get it.  I miss them all so much.

6.  Seeing Mount Rainier when I visit my family in Washington.  In our travels, we might not be able to see it due to weather conditions, or we may only get glimpses through the trees here and there.  Or, and this is even grander, when the "mountain is out", as the locals say, we can see the 'full monty', in all it's glory.  I don't care how many times I see it, the experience never gets old.  I never get the ho-hum feeling about Rainier.  The mountain is the tallest in the Cascade range.  It dwarfs all of Seattle, and when conditions are right to view it, the experience is awesome and humbling.

The little things are the stuff that joy is made of.