You know the saying: "You only had ONE job to do, and you blew it!"
What happens if you mess up that one job three months in a row? I think I need to fire myself.
My church provides something called Free Lunch Saturday on the last Saturday of each month. (The volunteers who work the event call it Last Saturday Lunch. I will call it LSL.) It is open to the public, offering a well-balanced meal--entree, veggies or fruit, some kind of bread, dessert, and drink--to anyone who walks in the door. There is also a fairly large contingent of meals that are delivered to the homes of people in need who have been put on a list. (Last year at this time, because I was on crutches due to a torn meniscus in my knee and resultant surgery, my friend Judy put me on the list. I was sooo happy to see those meals come in! And when I got back on solid footing again, I had myself removed from the list so that the ministry could better serve those who needed it more.)
The ministry provides the meals. Volunteers provide the desserts. Since I don't contribute all that much to my church financially, I try to make up for it by giving what I can by way of other things that I can handle--like baking desserts for LSL. Making a dessert for one occasion per month doesn't seem like much, but what I haven't explained is that I am mostly a failure at baking desserts!
What the LSL ministry wants is a dessert that will yield 12 servings. Usually, that means two pies or a 9x13 pan of something. I don't do pies. Gave them up many years ago because I found them to be labor-intensive and never, ever, matched my mother's. (My excuse: I was a working single mother for a lot of years. No time for that nonsense.) For the last two years, I have used boring cake mixes with boring canned frosting, while I observe other glorious desserts being taken into the church kitchen. Oh, sure...I have all kinds of wonderful recipes. They just require all kinds of wonderful effort. Had I ever been a confident baker, I could rely on my past skills during my retirement now. I confess that I never was a confident baker.
Case in point: As a young bride in the late 60s, I attempted to make homemade shortcakes for a strawberry shortcake dessert. The resulting shortcake biscuits were so salty, the whole dessert was inedible. When I told my mom about it, she asked about what kind of flour I had used. Whaaat? There are different kinds of flour? I checked the bag. I had bought self-rising flour--loaded with salt.
Another case in point: Baking a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving--also late 60s--I put the filling into the crust and was ready to bake it all when I realized that I had left the sugar out of the filling. Had to dump it all out of the crust and mix it all again. Needless to say, it was a messy pie!
Fast forward 50 years to the LSL baking.
*Two months ago (January), I totally forgot that I had volunteered a dessert. Remembered just as the desserts were due at the church. Oops!
*One month ago (February), I decided to send lemon bars. Had already baked the crust, then put the filling on top of the crust to return to the oven. The sides of the disposable foil pan buckled, creating a moving wave of filling that spilled all over the door of my oven. It was too late to start over, so I baked what I had and took the results to church. I have no idea how they turned out, but I was mortified.
*This month--last night--I totally misread poorly-written instructions on a boxed mix for brownie/cookie bars. The end result was that I only used half of what I should have and baked it according to full-recipe instructions. What came out of the oven were thin, overcooked brownies without the cookie dough that was required to be baked on top. No way to fix it. I just sprinkled powdered sugar on top and took the pan to church without apology. I mean, how often can you apologize for what you are offering without feeling like a total baking failure??
When I told my daughter about this little history with the baking, she seemed somewhat incredulous that I would even keep trying when I don't even like baking that much. She's right, of course. I can either drop out of the LSL baking ministry, or I can provide something store-bought. (They don't mind.) Obviously, what I am doing isn't working....
But...I make mean casseroles! If they ever need those contributions, I'm good to go.
Sigh.
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
It Only Gets Worse...
I've already spoken of my picture dilemma. Figured I'd soon get overwhelmed by it all. And I was right. Every room in the house--except for the bathrooms--is now totally out of control and closing in on me. It is actually affecting my mood because I realize that it won't end quickly or well, and that there are dozens of drawers and cabinets and closets filled with stuff that I also need to go through just to bring some sort of organization to what I always said I would take care of when I retired. Well...I retired...but it's worse than ever. I hate clutter but am always surrounded by it, no matter how hard I try. And it all started when I set out to look for some pictures that my daughter needed for information about her past.
The absolute worst part about all of this is that no one can really help me. I work better when there is someone to hold my hand through it, but the actual work requires ME. I still have many, many "things" around my house that belong to my daughter, and I still keep bedrooms, complete with belongings, for my grandchildren. I save them all, not knowing what to do with them...yet, when I ask my daughter, she always says, "Pitch 'em". That goes against my religion! I used to lovingly tease my friend and co-grandma, Judy, about her propensity not to throw anything away, but I now see a lot of myself in her. A few days ago, I dug down to the very bottom of my clothes hamper and found a throw rug that I probably haven't used in 10 years or more because it was beginning to fray, and a t-shirt that my granddaughter created in school--my guess is Kindergarten or 1st grade. It stayed in the hamper because it required special treatment to set the paints, but I never got around to it. It probably wouldn't even fit on her right leg now, but how can I possibly throw it away?? My baby Robin created it! She wouldn't have any use for it now...but...but...
Back when my granddaughter was a baby (no sign of her brother, yet), I took my daughter and her then-husband to Nashville, IN, for a day trip. In one of the shops, I saw a framed picture called My First Year, which consisted of oval cut-outs in which to put portraits of baby's first year: newborn, 3 months, 6 months, 9 months, and one year. I bought it because it was more attractive than anything else I had seen like that. (Had I known at the time that I would have TWO grandchildren, I would have purchased a second one.) I had four of the five slots filled but never put in the final picture of Robin's 1-year birthday. It has been on a shelf of my bedroom bookcase, unfinished, for a very long time. A few days ago, I found the 1-year portraits we had taken of the young lady, so just today--JUST TODAY--I finished the project. Robin is now 15.5 years old. Gosh...it only took 14 years for me to get it done. But now, I'm afraid to display it because I don't have one to match for her brother!! Help me!
This stuff isn't even really important in the grand scheme of things. I need to be taking care of business so my daughter isn't left with this same nightmare when I croak. I need a thinking adjustment before I lose track of what is truly significant. I'm convinced that a day or two of sunshine would help. All of our snow has gone bye-bye, but we haven't seen Ol' Sol for a number of days. Maybe things would seem more do-able if the sun would shine. Praying for that!!
The absolute worst part about all of this is that no one can really help me. I work better when there is someone to hold my hand through it, but the actual work requires ME. I still have many, many "things" around my house that belong to my daughter, and I still keep bedrooms, complete with belongings, for my grandchildren. I save them all, not knowing what to do with them...yet, when I ask my daughter, she always says, "Pitch 'em". That goes against my religion! I used to lovingly tease my friend and co-grandma, Judy, about her propensity not to throw anything away, but I now see a lot of myself in her. A few days ago, I dug down to the very bottom of my clothes hamper and found a throw rug that I probably haven't used in 10 years or more because it was beginning to fray, and a t-shirt that my granddaughter created in school--my guess is Kindergarten or 1st grade. It stayed in the hamper because it required special treatment to set the paints, but I never got around to it. It probably wouldn't even fit on her right leg now, but how can I possibly throw it away?? My baby Robin created it! She wouldn't have any use for it now...but...but...
Back when my granddaughter was a baby (no sign of her brother, yet), I took my daughter and her then-husband to Nashville, IN, for a day trip. In one of the shops, I saw a framed picture called My First Year, which consisted of oval cut-outs in which to put portraits of baby's first year: newborn, 3 months, 6 months, 9 months, and one year. I bought it because it was more attractive than anything else I had seen like that. (Had I known at the time that I would have TWO grandchildren, I would have purchased a second one.) I had four of the five slots filled but never put in the final picture of Robin's 1-year birthday. It has been on a shelf of my bedroom bookcase, unfinished, for a very long time. A few days ago, I found the 1-year portraits we had taken of the young lady, so just today--JUST TODAY--I finished the project. Robin is now 15.5 years old. Gosh...it only took 14 years for me to get it done. But now, I'm afraid to display it because I don't have one to match for her brother!! Help me!
This stuff isn't even really important in the grand scheme of things. I need to be taking care of business so my daughter isn't left with this same nightmare when I croak. I need a thinking adjustment before I lose track of what is truly significant. I'm convinced that a day or two of sunshine would help. All of our snow has gone bye-bye, but we haven't seen Ol' Sol for a number of days. Maybe things would seem more do-able if the sun would shine. Praying for that!!
Monday, March 26, 2018
Pictures, pictures, pictures!
Who do I blame for the jumbled mess of snapshots that now cover my kitchen table? I took them out of my souvenir boxes (see previous blog entry The Boxes) several days ago, and there they still are, just waiting for me to risk spilling something on before I actually get up the energy to do something about them. I suppose it's my fault. It's also my fault that these are only a small portion of the hundreds of photos that are stashed in other boxes in various places all around the house.
Do something about them, Peggy...but what? I used to be diligent about keeping albums. I also used to be careful about writing dates and places on the back of photos. Those days have come and gone, unfortunately. I am now forced to consider what to do with just this latest batch of newfound photos.
First of all, I am appalled at the horrible quality of color photos in earlier days. Camera technology sure has changed since the 60s and 70s! I'm no pro at photography and never had what anyone could consider a quality camera. And guess what? You get what you pay for! The cruddy little snapshots from those old point-and-shoot cameras lack composition (from my lack of experience). The colors are bland and faded into various hues of yellow (from earlier failures of technology). The definition is somewhat blurry. Some dark. Others over-exposed. Even worse, every stinkin' picture is hard-curled, not so much from being in a box, but because of the nature of the paper they were printed on. Many of them, I couldn't put in an album if I wanted to because, in order to make them flat again, they would be damaged.
Okay...so this morning, I started sorting the pictures.
*There are uninteresting pictures of landscapes of famous places. No people in them.
*There are rare pictures of my family, made more fascinating because of the things in the background--remnants of my childhood.
*There are pictures of people whose names I had long forgotten and struggled to remember, with their names carefully printed on the back. (Whew!)
*There are pictures of events that actually have no meaning to me now. (A canoeing trip in Michigan. A vacation trip to Washington, DC. A visit from former students from Heyworth, IL, to my apartment in Matteson, IL, after I left Heyworth. (I don't even remember the girls' names now.)
*There is my precious Ann--my Irish Setter--and her little buddy Fritz (my parents' dog, a long-haired dachshund) at the family farm. (Funny thing about those two: Ann was probably four-times larger than Fritz, but he was the boss. They played endlessly, with Ann always showing submission. Fritz was the smartest dog I've ever met, and Ann was the sweetest, most obedient. They were quite a team. I loved taking her to the farm because she had such a good time there. She is buried in the pasture. They both went over the Rainbow Bridge a very long time ago.)
*There are a couple dozen pictures of my first wedding. Just a couple of my second.
One final note: I would trade all of the landscape pictures in the world for just a few more of my parents and my grandparents...and even my brother. Those people are all gone forever. I do so wish I had more photos of them.
I'm sorting pictures. What to pitch? What to save? Sort by year? Event? And what if I'm not sure of the date...or even the event? I will soon be overwhelmed by the magnitude of this little project. If I do this with this one batch of loose photos, must I also do it with all of the rest in the other boxes in the house? I'm not sure I have that many years left!!!
I know I'm not the only one dealing with this. So many families determine what to do with the photos when they have time. Then days turn into weeks, and weeks into months....and the rest is history.
Back to my project. There are only so many hours in a day. Wish me luck!
Do something about them, Peggy...but what? I used to be diligent about keeping albums. I also used to be careful about writing dates and places on the back of photos. Those days have come and gone, unfortunately. I am now forced to consider what to do with just this latest batch of newfound photos.
First of all, I am appalled at the horrible quality of color photos in earlier days. Camera technology sure has changed since the 60s and 70s! I'm no pro at photography and never had what anyone could consider a quality camera. And guess what? You get what you pay for! The cruddy little snapshots from those old point-and-shoot cameras lack composition (from my lack of experience). The colors are bland and faded into various hues of yellow (from earlier failures of technology). The definition is somewhat blurry. Some dark. Others over-exposed. Even worse, every stinkin' picture is hard-curled, not so much from being in a box, but because of the nature of the paper they were printed on. Many of them, I couldn't put in an album if I wanted to because, in order to make them flat again, they would be damaged.
Okay...so this morning, I started sorting the pictures.
*There are uninteresting pictures of landscapes of famous places. No people in them.
*There are rare pictures of my family, made more fascinating because of the things in the background--remnants of my childhood.
*There are pictures of people whose names I had long forgotten and struggled to remember, with their names carefully printed on the back. (Whew!)
*There are pictures of events that actually have no meaning to me now. (A canoeing trip in Michigan. A vacation trip to Washington, DC. A visit from former students from Heyworth, IL, to my apartment in Matteson, IL, after I left Heyworth. (I don't even remember the girls' names now.)
*There is my precious Ann--my Irish Setter--and her little buddy Fritz (my parents' dog, a long-haired dachshund) at the family farm. (Funny thing about those two: Ann was probably four-times larger than Fritz, but he was the boss. They played endlessly, with Ann always showing submission. Fritz was the smartest dog I've ever met, and Ann was the sweetest, most obedient. They were quite a team. I loved taking her to the farm because she had such a good time there. She is buried in the pasture. They both went over the Rainbow Bridge a very long time ago.)
*There are a couple dozen pictures of my first wedding. Just a couple of my second.
One final note: I would trade all of the landscape pictures in the world for just a few more of my parents and my grandparents...and even my brother. Those people are all gone forever. I do so wish I had more photos of them.
I'm sorting pictures. What to pitch? What to save? Sort by year? Event? And what if I'm not sure of the date...or even the event? I will soon be overwhelmed by the magnitude of this little project. If I do this with this one batch of loose photos, must I also do it with all of the rest in the other boxes in the house? I'm not sure I have that many years left!!!
I know I'm not the only one dealing with this. So many families determine what to do with the photos when they have time. Then days turn into weeks, and weeks into months....and the rest is history.
Back to my project. There are only so many hours in a day. Wish me luck!
Sunday, March 25, 2018
Thirty-nine Years Ago
On this day so many years ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, who instantly became the love of my life. As I was in heavy labor and heading to the hospital that was 45 minutes away, it was snowing. Great. Just great. Our baby wasn't slated to arrive for another four weeks, but she had other ideas, and there was just nothing else to do but to head to the hospital in the snow, with me gritting my teeth every mile. It was midnight, snowing, and I was terrified because the timing wasn't right. We didn't have a single diaper in the house. My first signs of active labor were actually signs of late-term labor, so I was confused. I think it snowed two inches that night, and before long at the hospital, I delivered my baby who wasn't even named until after she came into the world. I fell in love at first sight!
Through the years, my baby and I have had our differences, as all families do, but she has developed from a beautiful baby to a beautiful woman, and I miss the daylights out of her!
But back to the whole snow thing. Here in the Midwest, we believe that winter is done for the year along about Valentine's Day...but barring that, surely St. Patrick's Day. Yeah...about that...
Yesterday, on the eve of my child's 39th birthday in Washington, central Indiana got a whopping eight inches of heavy white stuff. Thank the Good Lord I wasn't racing to the hospital to deliver a baby in that mess!!
And what a difference a day makes!
Every surface that was plowed close to the ground is now either just a bit wet, or dry. Everything is dripping. Mom Nature's last blast is on its way out, thank goodness. Cruel trick, Mom N. We've already had days in the 60's and low 70's. What's up with this?? Just keeping us on our toes? The joke's on you. We have 48 degrees and lots of sunshine. Just see how long your blast will keep us down!
In the meantime, Happy Birthday to my daughter. As my life winds down, hers is still bright. That's what it's all about!
Through the years, my baby and I have had our differences, as all families do, but she has developed from a beautiful baby to a beautiful woman, and I miss the daylights out of her!
But back to the whole snow thing. Here in the Midwest, we believe that winter is done for the year along about Valentine's Day...but barring that, surely St. Patrick's Day. Yeah...about that...
Yesterday, on the eve of my child's 39th birthday in Washington, central Indiana got a whopping eight inches of heavy white stuff. Thank the Good Lord I wasn't racing to the hospital to deliver a baby in that mess!!
And what a difference a day makes!
Every surface that was plowed close to the ground is now either just a bit wet, or dry. Everything is dripping. Mom Nature's last blast is on its way out, thank goodness. Cruel trick, Mom N. We've already had days in the 60's and low 70's. What's up with this?? Just keeping us on our toes? The joke's on you. We have 48 degrees and lots of sunshine. Just see how long your blast will keep us down!
In the meantime, Happy Birthday to my daughter. As my life winds down, hers is still bright. That's what it's all about!
The Boxes
Through the many years of my existence, I have kept my remembrances (aka souvenirs) in what can be described as bank boxes but are actually the boxes that reams of copy paper come in, with lids, thanks to my teacher years. A couple of days ago, I had need to get into the two boxes to search for some information that my daughter needed, but the boxes were high on a shelf above my head and beyond my capability to balance. A radio friend came to my rescue. He took the boxes down, and I was left to search them for the first time in forever.
Bottom line: What my daughter needed was not in either box. That should be the end of the story, but it isn't. There are oh-so-many memories stashed in those cardboard containers! The memories of a past life that basically would mean nothing to anyone else but me. In fact, even I wonder why I saved some things.
Some things found in the boxes that go back to 2nd grade or ealier (not an inclusive list). There are too many to mention, but here's a start, not in any order:
*The now-smashed red bow that was tied around my 1965 graduation red roses.
*Newspapers from President Kennedy's assassination in 1963.
*Pictures...lots of pictures...just thrown in the boxes, some of which are of our farm buildings that no longer exist.
*Newspaper pictures of my high school solo performances and/or play performances.
*A wooden gold star that my father created and secretly nailed to my bedroom door when I got my first lead role in a high school performance, circa 1964.
*My Bird Book...something that was created on assignment in 2nd grade (1955). I was/am very proud of that little booklet because I thought I did such a good job. (Shades of my granddaughter's 2nd grade artwork that showed so much talent.)
*School advertising posters for the plays in high school in which I was involved. (1960's)
*Some campaign poetry written in my mother's hand, when I was running for secretary of my school's junior high government. Mom finally talked me into running for President, and I won! (1960 or so.)
*An 8x10 color picture of President Nixon and wife, received when we visited the White House on a government issued invitation in...maybe 1971?
*A card that accompanied some flowers from my parents saying, "Love to our star." I'm guessing 1964 or 65.
*A small felt banner from Rice Lake High School, Rice Lake, WI. (From my many years as an adorer of one of their students.)
*A Candygram that resembles a Western Union telegram, to me in college for Valentine's Day, from my parents and brother.
*My Kindergarten report card.
*At least one of my high school report cards. (I kept the ones on which my dean, Mr. Schuknecht, wrote "Congratulations! Honor roll!" They certainly weren't all that good.)
*A proof of a professional General Electric brochure about their fluorescent lighting systems in schools. A major GE plant was just blocks away from our school in Danville, IL, and my 4th grade teacher was a very attractive woman; hence, our class was chosen for the brochure. I was in the pictures!! (1957.)
*A script from a play I was in. Pontiac, IL...1984.
*A newspaper from the day John Lennon was killed. (1980?)
*Some of my daughter's young artwork.
And the list goes on.
Where do I start to weed out things that just aren't going to mean anything to my family after I depart this life?? Suggestions appreciated!
I am left with a cluttered kitchen because the boxes have usurped usable space. Ugh! Next project??
Bottom line: What my daughter needed was not in either box. That should be the end of the story, but it isn't. There are oh-so-many memories stashed in those cardboard containers! The memories of a past life that basically would mean nothing to anyone else but me. In fact, even I wonder why I saved some things.
Some things found in the boxes that go back to 2nd grade or ealier (not an inclusive list). There are too many to mention, but here's a start, not in any order:
*The now-smashed red bow that was tied around my 1965 graduation red roses.
*Newspapers from President Kennedy's assassination in 1963.
*Pictures...lots of pictures...just thrown in the boxes, some of which are of our farm buildings that no longer exist.
*Newspaper pictures of my high school solo performances and/or play performances.
*A wooden gold star that my father created and secretly nailed to my bedroom door when I got my first lead role in a high school performance, circa 1964.
*My Bird Book...something that was created on assignment in 2nd grade (1955). I was/am very proud of that little booklet because I thought I did such a good job. (Shades of my granddaughter's 2nd grade artwork that showed so much talent.)
*School advertising posters for the plays in high school in which I was involved. (1960's)
*Some campaign poetry written in my mother's hand, when I was running for secretary of my school's junior high government. Mom finally talked me into running for President, and I won! (1960 or so.)
*An 8x10 color picture of President Nixon and wife, received when we visited the White House on a government issued invitation in...maybe 1971?
*A card that accompanied some flowers from my parents saying, "Love to our star." I'm guessing 1964 or 65.
*A small felt banner from Rice Lake High School, Rice Lake, WI. (From my many years as an adorer of one of their students.)
*A Candygram that resembles a Western Union telegram, to me in college for Valentine's Day, from my parents and brother.
*My Kindergarten report card.
*At least one of my high school report cards. (I kept the ones on which my dean, Mr. Schuknecht, wrote "Congratulations! Honor roll!" They certainly weren't all that good.)
*A proof of a professional General Electric brochure about their fluorescent lighting systems in schools. A major GE plant was just blocks away from our school in Danville, IL, and my 4th grade teacher was a very attractive woman; hence, our class was chosen for the brochure. I was in the pictures!! (1957.)
*A script from a play I was in. Pontiac, IL...1984.
*A newspaper from the day John Lennon was killed. (1980?)
*Some of my daughter's young artwork.
And the list goes on.
Where do I start to weed out things that just aren't going to mean anything to my family after I depart this life?? Suggestions appreciated!
I am left with a cluttered kitchen because the boxes have usurped usable space. Ugh! Next project??
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
My Brain
The human brain is a wonderful and scary thing. It controls the physical functions of the body as well as thought processes, and everything in between. It is, perhaps, the most complicated organ we possess--arguably the most studied, and probably the most misunderstood. Science and medicine, combined, are only now just beginning to understand how it works. And I, for one, sure wish I understood my own.
My thinking operates on examples and patterns. It wanders a lot. One thought leads to another thought, which (to those who don't know me) might seem unrelated, but there is always a logical pattern to what took me from one idea to another. I believe I had some students who were frustrated with that. I was never off topic, if they could see my thought patterns; but, since they couldn't, they probably thought I was just a crazy lady trying to teach them something they really didn't think applied to them. And now that I'm retired from teaching, disabled, and living alone, I find that my mind works just as hard trying to make sense out of the world around me.
This morning, I was up at 4:15 AM, having gone to sleep somewhere around 12:30 AM. (No, that's not enough sleep, but there isn't a thing I can do about it that I know of. ) I got up and started searching TV channels for something that wasn't an infomercial. I landed on a show called Hollywood Medium with Tyler Henry, which is about a young man/medium who meets with celebrities to give them psychic "readings" that involve their dead relatives. As he was telling people about their parents or grandparents or significant others, my sleep-deprived-but-wide-awake brain started working overtime about my own dear relatives who have passed. My thoughts landed on my mother.
My mom died suddenly in 1986. She was in the hospital for another reason, but was doing well and expected to be released within a couple of days. Then things suddenly went south...and she passed without any of the family able to get there in time. I got a call at 10:30 PM from my father saying that Mom was in trouble and was being sent to the ICU. My husband was gone (long story), so I grabbed my daughter and threw her in the car with a blanket and a pillow, and drove the 25 or so miles to the hospital where Mom was. When we got there, we were ushered into a waiting room where my father and Mom's sister and brother-in-law awaited our arrival. Mom was gone. They told me I could go to see her in her bed. I was devastated. Life without my mother? My best friend in all the world? Not possible! As it often does in times of deep shock, my brain went numb. For months, I simply went through the motions of life, not knowing how to function...but I did.
When there was nothing more to be done at the hospital, I walked down the hall past the funeral director, leaning on my 7-year-old daughter--so young to have to deal with death. She didn't cry or even talk. (To this day, I don't know how that experience impacted her.) We were to head home to the farm homestead. I wanted to drive my father on those lonely, dark roads, but he insisted on driving himself. At the farm, Megan and I pulled up to the garage, noting that Dad had gotten there safely. The hardest thing I ever did was walk into that lonely old farmhouse that would never again have my mother's presence. Once inside, I had to deal with my daughter's needs, my father's needs, my family's need--all alone. I was desperate for someone--ANYONE--to come and relieve me of those responsibilities, but they couldn't appear for hours. I called the family while Dad sat in his chair in total grief.
And where was my young daughter? By this time, it was midnight. She didn't have many toys at Grandma and Grandpa's. No one in the household was hysterical, but based on her behavior that night, she totally understood that this was not the time to be her willful self. I knew it was useless to try to put her to bed, although I wanted to, for her own good. And here is the picture of those lonely hours: Imagine a large room with a recliner (Dad's) next to a couch. Old farmhouses aren't meant to be alive at that hour, but ours was. Imagine again, if you will, that there was a spotlight around that recliner. At the outer edge of what would be the end of the spotlight's distance, my daughter quietly kept herself busy at a safe distance. She was just out of the imagined circle of light. She wasn't demanding. She didn't whine. She was silent and seemingly distracted, although I was aware that she listening to every word of what was said.
People started arriving in the middle of the night. My brother first because he was closest. Then my sister and brother-in-law. Finally, my husband. But this time, it was nearly dawn. We all found places to crash. Dad stayed in his recliner. My brother stayed on the couch next to Dad's chair. My sister and bro-in-law went to the parents' bedroom. My husband and I stayed in my grandfather's bed, with our daughter on the floor next to us. No one slept well. After a couple of hours of sleep, we all got up and launched into what needed to be done to receive visitors and make funeral plans. It was all a blur.
Sometime during all of that, my daughter wrote a small note to her grandfather and left it on the arm of his chair. "I'm sorry about what happened to Grandma. It is not fun." My brother saw the childlike passion in that and saved the note for himself. I believe it was probably in his effects when he died, lost to us forever.
Remembering that night and my perceptions of it as I was watching that doggone medium show, I came to wonder about why I loved my grandmother as much as I did. (I've already told you that my mind is weird!) My grandmother didn't pass until I was way into my late 20s, and she was very, very sick; but, looking back, I question why she was so important to me. All of my young life, she was mostly disabled. It got worse over time. We didn't really go anywhere together or do too many things together. She was just a presence of stability in my military childhood. Wherever we went in the world, we always came home to the farm...and my grandparents were always there, waiting for us to return to the fold. The rest of the world always changed for me, but my grandparents and their farm was our constant. My father adored her, even though she was "only" his mother-in-law. Whatever she wanted, he did. And she loved him just as much. I knew without a doubt that she loved me in only a way that a grandmother knows. I never, ever considered her outdated or out of touch. She wasn't expected to bend to me; it was my job to bend to her.
And, just this morning, my brain had a revelation. As I observed my daughter's reactions in the outer edges of the circle the night my mother died in 1986, I saw myself on that same outer circle, but not because of a death. Kids were in a different place in the family constellation in those days. My own place at the edge of the circle of light was sitting back and watching how my family all reacted to each other. When we were with my grandparents, life was good. There were pinochle or bridge games going on in the living room at night, and happy garden meals during the day. We ate. We laughed. We teased each other. I was in on some of that, even very young, but the main thing that I took from it was that I wanted some of that for my own life. My mother and my grandmother were most obviously good friends who would do anything for each other. In those early years, all I wanted for my future self was, should I have children of my own, to have a relationship like they had. I worked hard for that with my daughter. I think there were many times that I parented out of guilt after her father and I divorced. In fact, I am unmarried to this day because of that, but my kid never, ever had to think that she was unsupported.
Since my mom died so early in my daughter's life, I'm not sure if she had the example of Life With Grandma to pattern her life on. Doesn't matter. Although we are from different generations, as the saying goes, "Love is love." I can die happy now because I've been there for all of her glitches, even though I still don't understand all of them.
Have you followed this thread of my thinking? If you did, congratulations. I'm not totally sure that even I do. I'm just happy that I can still see beyond my toes to what seems like the real thing. God...and my brain...works in mysterious ways!
My thinking operates on examples and patterns. It wanders a lot. One thought leads to another thought, which (to those who don't know me) might seem unrelated, but there is always a logical pattern to what took me from one idea to another. I believe I had some students who were frustrated with that. I was never off topic, if they could see my thought patterns; but, since they couldn't, they probably thought I was just a crazy lady trying to teach them something they really didn't think applied to them. And now that I'm retired from teaching, disabled, and living alone, I find that my mind works just as hard trying to make sense out of the world around me.
This morning, I was up at 4:15 AM, having gone to sleep somewhere around 12:30 AM. (No, that's not enough sleep, but there isn't a thing I can do about it that I know of. ) I got up and started searching TV channels for something that wasn't an infomercial. I landed on a show called Hollywood Medium with Tyler Henry, which is about a young man/medium who meets with celebrities to give them psychic "readings" that involve their dead relatives. As he was telling people about their parents or grandparents or significant others, my sleep-deprived-but-wide-awake brain started working overtime about my own dear relatives who have passed. My thoughts landed on my mother.
My mom died suddenly in 1986. She was in the hospital for another reason, but was doing well and expected to be released within a couple of days. Then things suddenly went south...and she passed without any of the family able to get there in time. I got a call at 10:30 PM from my father saying that Mom was in trouble and was being sent to the ICU. My husband was gone (long story), so I grabbed my daughter and threw her in the car with a blanket and a pillow, and drove the 25 or so miles to the hospital where Mom was. When we got there, we were ushered into a waiting room where my father and Mom's sister and brother-in-law awaited our arrival. Mom was gone. They told me I could go to see her in her bed. I was devastated. Life without my mother? My best friend in all the world? Not possible! As it often does in times of deep shock, my brain went numb. For months, I simply went through the motions of life, not knowing how to function...but I did.
When there was nothing more to be done at the hospital, I walked down the hall past the funeral director, leaning on my 7-year-old daughter--so young to have to deal with death. She didn't cry or even talk. (To this day, I don't know how that experience impacted her.) We were to head home to the farm homestead. I wanted to drive my father on those lonely, dark roads, but he insisted on driving himself. At the farm, Megan and I pulled up to the garage, noting that Dad had gotten there safely. The hardest thing I ever did was walk into that lonely old farmhouse that would never again have my mother's presence. Once inside, I had to deal with my daughter's needs, my father's needs, my family's need--all alone. I was desperate for someone--ANYONE--to come and relieve me of those responsibilities, but they couldn't appear for hours. I called the family while Dad sat in his chair in total grief.
And where was my young daughter? By this time, it was midnight. She didn't have many toys at Grandma and Grandpa's. No one in the household was hysterical, but based on her behavior that night, she totally understood that this was not the time to be her willful self. I knew it was useless to try to put her to bed, although I wanted to, for her own good. And here is the picture of those lonely hours: Imagine a large room with a recliner (Dad's) next to a couch. Old farmhouses aren't meant to be alive at that hour, but ours was. Imagine again, if you will, that there was a spotlight around that recliner. At the outer edge of what would be the end of the spotlight's distance, my daughter quietly kept herself busy at a safe distance. She was just out of the imagined circle of light. She wasn't demanding. She didn't whine. She was silent and seemingly distracted, although I was aware that she listening to every word of what was said.
People started arriving in the middle of the night. My brother first because he was closest. Then my sister and brother-in-law. Finally, my husband. But this time, it was nearly dawn. We all found places to crash. Dad stayed in his recliner. My brother stayed on the couch next to Dad's chair. My sister and bro-in-law went to the parents' bedroom. My husband and I stayed in my grandfather's bed, with our daughter on the floor next to us. No one slept well. After a couple of hours of sleep, we all got up and launched into what needed to be done to receive visitors and make funeral plans. It was all a blur.
Sometime during all of that, my daughter wrote a small note to her grandfather and left it on the arm of his chair. "I'm sorry about what happened to Grandma. It is not fun." My brother saw the childlike passion in that and saved the note for himself. I believe it was probably in his effects when he died, lost to us forever.
Remembering that night and my perceptions of it as I was watching that doggone medium show, I came to wonder about why I loved my grandmother as much as I did. (I've already told you that my mind is weird!) My grandmother didn't pass until I was way into my late 20s, and she was very, very sick; but, looking back, I question why she was so important to me. All of my young life, she was mostly disabled. It got worse over time. We didn't really go anywhere together or do too many things together. She was just a presence of stability in my military childhood. Wherever we went in the world, we always came home to the farm...and my grandparents were always there, waiting for us to return to the fold. The rest of the world always changed for me, but my grandparents and their farm was our constant. My father adored her, even though she was "only" his mother-in-law. Whatever she wanted, he did. And she loved him just as much. I knew without a doubt that she loved me in only a way that a grandmother knows. I never, ever considered her outdated or out of touch. She wasn't expected to bend to me; it was my job to bend to her.
And, just this morning, my brain had a revelation. As I observed my daughter's reactions in the outer edges of the circle the night my mother died in 1986, I saw myself on that same outer circle, but not because of a death. Kids were in a different place in the family constellation in those days. My own place at the edge of the circle of light was sitting back and watching how my family all reacted to each other. When we were with my grandparents, life was good. There were pinochle or bridge games going on in the living room at night, and happy garden meals during the day. We ate. We laughed. We teased each other. I was in on some of that, even very young, but the main thing that I took from it was that I wanted some of that for my own life. My mother and my grandmother were most obviously good friends who would do anything for each other. In those early years, all I wanted for my future self was, should I have children of my own, to have a relationship like they had. I worked hard for that with my daughter. I think there were many times that I parented out of guilt after her father and I divorced. In fact, I am unmarried to this day because of that, but my kid never, ever had to think that she was unsupported.
Since my mom died so early in my daughter's life, I'm not sure if she had the example of Life With Grandma to pattern her life on. Doesn't matter. Although we are from different generations, as the saying goes, "Love is love." I can die happy now because I've been there for all of her glitches, even though I still don't understand all of them.
Have you followed this thread of my thinking? If you did, congratulations. I'm not totally sure that even I do. I'm just happy that I can still see beyond my toes to what seems like the real thing. God...and my brain...works in mysterious ways!
Friday, March 9, 2018
Breakfast With Hurricane Bonnie
One of my very dearest male friends (through amateur radio since 1997) is a married man named Ryan. He and his wife and I have broken bread together several times during our retirement years. I was never as close to his wife Bonnie as I was to him, but we weren't strangers.
Bonnie had a way about her. She was an avid reader, movie watcher, and water-color painter. She even taught others how to do water-color painting. She had an artistic flair that couldn't be denied, as well as a good-paying job that often kept them afloat. Ryan is a somewhat laid-back, passionate kind of guy. Bonnie, however, had a sharp-tongued sense of humor that often bordered on the sarcastic. (Okay...more than "often" perhaps.) Based on things that Ryan told me and his other radio buds, she came to be known as Hurricane Bonnie behind her back. (Once, years ago, I had a garage sale that Bonnie participated in. My daughter, after spending a day with Bonnie at the sale, said, "I just love Bonnie. She's such a bitch!" She meant it in the nicest way. Bonnie didn't hold back. She wasn't nasty. She wasn't profane. She was just...well...Bonnie. No nonsense. )
To be fair, ham radio is an overwhelmingly male hobby. Non-ham wives can be skeptical--even resistant--to the amount of time and dedication (and money) that their radio-smitten husbands expend on the hobby, to the degree that one could buy t-shirts at the annual radio convention that used to be held in Dayton, OH, that said, "My wife tells me if I transmit one more time, she's going to leave me. Over." Or "My wife told me that it's my radios or her. I'm sure going to miss that woman." A male radio operator once asked me how he could convince his wife to be as passionate about the hobby as I was. I had to tell him, "You probably can't. I don't have a spouse who could be jealous of the time and money that I spend on the hobby. You do. Women often just don't understand the attraction to radio. You'll just have to find a happy medium." Hurricane Bonnie was one of those women. She saw radio as a vacuum that sucked out their time and finances, and I'm sure there were other issues, but she hung in there.
Ryan told me once, even in the throes of wishing his life were different, "I would die for Bonnie. I would die without Bonnie." And now, many years later, his dedication to Hurricane Bonnie is being tested because the hurricane is now just a fog. Bonnie was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia a number of years ago and is a mere shadow of her former sarcastic self. I've broken bread with them several times after the diagnosis. Today marked the first time in a year or so that I joined them for a breakfast with other friends. I had heard from my neighbor that Bonnie wasn't doing well, but I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn't good, but it wasn't dire. Yet.
The first thing I asked Bonnie was if she remembered my name. She didn't. I told it to her, knowing she wouldn't remember it. Before the food came, she exhibited quite a bit of anxiety...hunger...thirst...who knows? When the food came, she wept over her behavior before it did. Ryan assured her that no one was judging. (What was to judge? I've often considered crying when I was hungry and my food wasn't coming fast enough!) When she got her food and desired drink, she said she was feeling better and devoured everything in front of her.
I am no expert on dementia of any kind, but I spent a number of years trying to help my sister get through my brother-in-law's Fronto-Temporal Degeneration years. I didn't really understand it all until late in the game, but God knows I tried. Sitting next to Bonnie this morning felt comfortable to me. I know her. I care about her. I care about her husband. The waitress knows them and understands. Nothing to fear there.
If I coughed, Bonnie patted my arm. If I asked her a question, she always answered. Once or twice, she said she loved me. (She did that to others, too.) At one point, she looked at me and said, "You're so pretty!" Look, folks: I'm not stupid. If even a demented person thinks I am pretty, it's going to endear me to him/her, hands down!
She was getting anxious to leave because it was time. She and I waited at the door while Ryan paid the tab (thanks, Ryan!). I helped her zip her jacket. She seemed happy to have that accomplished, and told me, once again, that she loved me. And then she chuckled, "I don't know who you are, but I love you anyway". She saw the irony in what she said. It was both funny and sad. I love you, too, Bonnie. You just won't know it!!
If I understand nothing else about people suffering from dementia, I do know that the essence of who they are still lies beneath the surface, and what they are losing by way of mental faculties terrifies them. Consider putting yourself in the shoes of the sufferer, knowing that he/she is losing ground but powerless to change it. The result can be depression, anger, combativeness, tears...and alienating those who are taking care of you.
And what I know about caregivers is that they give and give until the afterburners are out of fuel. 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.
I love my friend Ryan, and I love his poor wife. I don't feel that I am in a good place to help them much, but I hope to God a light bulb will come on over my head if I can. When it comes to the stresses of illness of one spouse, the only understanding is that they promised to care for one another "in sickness and in health, 'til death do [they] part". I have SO MUCH respect for what Ryan is doing for Bonnie right now, I could cry. God bless them both!
Bonnie had a way about her. She was an avid reader, movie watcher, and water-color painter. She even taught others how to do water-color painting. She had an artistic flair that couldn't be denied, as well as a good-paying job that often kept them afloat. Ryan is a somewhat laid-back, passionate kind of guy. Bonnie, however, had a sharp-tongued sense of humor that often bordered on the sarcastic. (Okay...more than "often" perhaps.) Based on things that Ryan told me and his other radio buds, she came to be known as Hurricane Bonnie behind her back. (Once, years ago, I had a garage sale that Bonnie participated in. My daughter, after spending a day with Bonnie at the sale, said, "I just love Bonnie. She's such a bitch!" She meant it in the nicest way. Bonnie didn't hold back. She wasn't nasty. She wasn't profane. She was just...well...Bonnie. No nonsense. )
To be fair, ham radio is an overwhelmingly male hobby. Non-ham wives can be skeptical--even resistant--to the amount of time and dedication (and money) that their radio-smitten husbands expend on the hobby, to the degree that one could buy t-shirts at the annual radio convention that used to be held in Dayton, OH, that said, "My wife tells me if I transmit one more time, she's going to leave me. Over." Or "My wife told me that it's my radios or her. I'm sure going to miss that woman." A male radio operator once asked me how he could convince his wife to be as passionate about the hobby as I was. I had to tell him, "You probably can't. I don't have a spouse who could be jealous of the time and money that I spend on the hobby. You do. Women often just don't understand the attraction to radio. You'll just have to find a happy medium." Hurricane Bonnie was one of those women. She saw radio as a vacuum that sucked out their time and finances, and I'm sure there were other issues, but she hung in there.
Ryan told me once, even in the throes of wishing his life were different, "I would die for Bonnie. I would die without Bonnie." And now, many years later, his dedication to Hurricane Bonnie is being tested because the hurricane is now just a fog. Bonnie was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia a number of years ago and is a mere shadow of her former sarcastic self. I've broken bread with them several times after the diagnosis. Today marked the first time in a year or so that I joined them for a breakfast with other friends. I had heard from my neighbor that Bonnie wasn't doing well, but I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn't good, but it wasn't dire. Yet.
The first thing I asked Bonnie was if she remembered my name. She didn't. I told it to her, knowing she wouldn't remember it. Before the food came, she exhibited quite a bit of anxiety...hunger...thirst...who knows? When the food came, she wept over her behavior before it did. Ryan assured her that no one was judging. (What was to judge? I've often considered crying when I was hungry and my food wasn't coming fast enough!) When she got her food and desired drink, she said she was feeling better and devoured everything in front of her.
I am no expert on dementia of any kind, but I spent a number of years trying to help my sister get through my brother-in-law's Fronto-Temporal Degeneration years. I didn't really understand it all until late in the game, but God knows I tried. Sitting next to Bonnie this morning felt comfortable to me. I know her. I care about her. I care about her husband. The waitress knows them and understands. Nothing to fear there.
If I coughed, Bonnie patted my arm. If I asked her a question, she always answered. Once or twice, she said she loved me. (She did that to others, too.) At one point, she looked at me and said, "You're so pretty!" Look, folks: I'm not stupid. If even a demented person thinks I am pretty, it's going to endear me to him/her, hands down!
She was getting anxious to leave because it was time. She and I waited at the door while Ryan paid the tab (thanks, Ryan!). I helped her zip her jacket. She seemed happy to have that accomplished, and told me, once again, that she loved me. And then she chuckled, "I don't know who you are, but I love you anyway". She saw the irony in what she said. It was both funny and sad. I love you, too, Bonnie. You just won't know it!!
If I understand nothing else about people suffering from dementia, I do know that the essence of who they are still lies beneath the surface, and what they are losing by way of mental faculties terrifies them. Consider putting yourself in the shoes of the sufferer, knowing that he/she is losing ground but powerless to change it. The result can be depression, anger, combativeness, tears...and alienating those who are taking care of you.
And what I know about caregivers is that they give and give until the afterburners are out of fuel. 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.
I love my friend Ryan, and I love his poor wife. I don't feel that I am in a good place to help them much, but I hope to God a light bulb will come on over my head if I can. When it comes to the stresses of illness of one spouse, the only understanding is that they promised to care for one another "in sickness and in health, 'til death do [they] part". I have SO MUCH respect for what Ryan is doing for Bonnie right now, I could cry. God bless them both!
Thursday, March 8, 2018
Traveling Handicapped
Not so long after I retired, I began to have problems with walking...problems that seemed to stem from my back. I didn't do much about it--which will be the subject of another post. Suffice it to say that, along about 2011, my daughter suggested that I get a handicapped placard to make it easier for me to travel. I was really, really resistant. I still felt able and didn't particularly want to be classified as old and disabled. Yet, the facts were there, and my cardiologist had no qualms at all in approving not only a handicapped placard, but a PERMANENT handicapped placard. Still, I only used it sparingly. I wasn't flying any more because my family had moved back to the Midwest. I could drive to see them. But I just couldn't walk that well.
Then the family moved to Seattle. In order to see them again, I was going to have to fly. The only way I could do airports was to have handicapped support--which means wheelchairs. Again, it was personally embarrassing but necessary. Airports are big. I can't stand for long without leaning on something, and walking long distances can be a big problem. The only way for me to get from Point A to Point B in an airport is to request handicapped support. No one has ever questioned me on the need, nor do I have any doubt that I could provide whatever proof is required. Without it, I simply would not be able to fly. Period.
The only thing required to fly as a person in need of handicapped assistance is tip-money. The service is free. Tips are optional but appreciated. Once upon a time, a trip to Seattle from Indy was a two-legged trip, which meant that I needed to have cash to tip a wheelchair pusher in Indy, then at the connecting airport upon arrival, then again at the destination...and the same on the reverse trip. If I took a cab from Indy International to home at the end of the trip, that was another tip. Frankly, I never considered it a problem to travel as a disabled person. Yes, I paid a little bit more in tips than normal travelers, but I also got a couple of perks in the process. And then Alaska Airlines, just last May, offered a non-stop flight from Indy to Seattle, and back. What a relief! Seats are assigned (which they weren't on Southwest flights), and checked bags cost $25 apiece (which they weren't on Southwest flights), but flights are only ONE leg, and save hours and hours waiting for connections. I was glad to fork over a few funds just for the convenience!
Just last week, my daughter booked a flight for my grandchildren's paternal grandmother and me to fly to WA to see our granddaughter perform in her school's musical. It will encompass Mother's Day. Grandma Judy and Grandma Peggy are friends. We attend the same church. We have many of the same interests. We adore our grandchildren. In short, when our children said their "I do's", so did we...except we didn't divorce each other when our children did. When we determined that we were going to fly together and share a motel room for eight days, we found the meaning of "love".
I told Judy that I would require handicapped support at the airport. She resisted taking the same support, even though she has one artificial knee and another one that hurts. I believe she thought she would be taking away something that other people needed more--like taking up a handicapped parking spot when other people might need it more. (She's that kind of person!) I explained to her that she wasn't going to take anything away from people who were more handicapped by asking for help. The airlines provide this service. Since our seats are assigned, she will have absolutely no advantage over others except to be loaded on the plane earlier to be out of everyone else's way. Finally...FINALLY...she accepted the service. Yay, Judy!
Our flight doesn't occur until early May. Still, there are things to consider...and we will deal with those. In the meantime, I'm really excited about being with my family again, even if not staying with them overnight. It will be a semi-expensive trip for me but totally worth it. I hope my snoring doesn't keep Judy awake at night. I don't have a history of staying with her. We'll make it all work, somehow!!
Then the family moved to Seattle. In order to see them again, I was going to have to fly. The only way I could do airports was to have handicapped support--which means wheelchairs. Again, it was personally embarrassing but necessary. Airports are big. I can't stand for long without leaning on something, and walking long distances can be a big problem. The only way for me to get from Point A to Point B in an airport is to request handicapped support. No one has ever questioned me on the need, nor do I have any doubt that I could provide whatever proof is required. Without it, I simply would not be able to fly. Period.
The only thing required to fly as a person in need of handicapped assistance is tip-money. The service is free. Tips are optional but appreciated. Once upon a time, a trip to Seattle from Indy was a two-legged trip, which meant that I needed to have cash to tip a wheelchair pusher in Indy, then at the connecting airport upon arrival, then again at the destination...and the same on the reverse trip. If I took a cab from Indy International to home at the end of the trip, that was another tip. Frankly, I never considered it a problem to travel as a disabled person. Yes, I paid a little bit more in tips than normal travelers, but I also got a couple of perks in the process. And then Alaska Airlines, just last May, offered a non-stop flight from Indy to Seattle, and back. What a relief! Seats are assigned (which they weren't on Southwest flights), and checked bags cost $25 apiece (which they weren't on Southwest flights), but flights are only ONE leg, and save hours and hours waiting for connections. I was glad to fork over a few funds just for the convenience!
Just last week, my daughter booked a flight for my grandchildren's paternal grandmother and me to fly to WA to see our granddaughter perform in her school's musical. It will encompass Mother's Day. Grandma Judy and Grandma Peggy are friends. We attend the same church. We have many of the same interests. We adore our grandchildren. In short, when our children said their "I do's", so did we...except we didn't divorce each other when our children did. When we determined that we were going to fly together and share a motel room for eight days, we found the meaning of "love".
I told Judy that I would require handicapped support at the airport. She resisted taking the same support, even though she has one artificial knee and another one that hurts. I believe she thought she would be taking away something that other people needed more--like taking up a handicapped parking spot when other people might need it more. (She's that kind of person!) I explained to her that she wasn't going to take anything away from people who were more handicapped by asking for help. The airlines provide this service. Since our seats are assigned, she will have absolutely no advantage over others except to be loaded on the plane earlier to be out of everyone else's way. Finally...FINALLY...she accepted the service. Yay, Judy!
Our flight doesn't occur until early May. Still, there are things to consider...and we will deal with those. In the meantime, I'm really excited about being with my family again, even if not staying with them overnight. It will be a semi-expensive trip for me but totally worth it. I hope my snoring doesn't keep Judy awake at night. I don't have a history of staying with her. We'll make it all work, somehow!!
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
Ain't English Fun?
I spent 40 years of my adult life teaching English to English speakers. The last 19 years were devoted to HOOSIER English speakers, which is a whole different animal. But I was dealing mostly with children at 5th grade and above. I never taught classes below 4th grade, and would have been terrible at it if I had.
I was never into Early Childhood Development. In fact, at one time, when I was employed as an elementary school librarian (11 years), I told the Kindergarten teachers not to leave me alone with their classes because I didn't speak their language. Case in point: I would try to dismiss the KDG class by tables to go pick out books from the shelves. After two attempts, with no results, the teacher whispered in my ear, "Say 'the orange table'." I did, and the kids hopped up to do as I'd asked. Whaaat?
Then again, in that same capacity, before we got the computerized circulation system and were still using the card check-out system, I looked at one card for a book a Kdg student was checking out. His name was perfectly spelled on the card--perfectly readable--backwards. It wasn't just that the name was backwards; so were the letters! Perfectly! Oh, please save me!! In other words, even though I taught English and was a mother, I still had very little knowledge about how language develops in children. To this day, I think it is just magic!
My grandson is a perfect example of this. I had gone up to Muncie, IN, for a weekend visit with the family. My granddaughter always dictated what I needed to bring (usually "fwoot" and "canny") and would sleep with me when I was there...but it was my grandson, 15 months younger, whose language development absolutely fascinated me. One morning, I got up to greet everyone for breakfast. Somehow, the topic of beautiful hair came up at the breakfast table. My gray, unbrushed, curly hair was sticking up all over, and I jokingly asked my two-year-old grandson how my hair looked. He exclaimed, "Noodly!" We all laughed, but I was absolutely fascinated. To him, my gray, unruly hair looked like noodles. Kids of that age can be expected to use nouns like that...but he actually changed a noun into an adjective, and used it properly. Wow! Magic! He's been a linguistic whiz-bang ever since!
My son-in-law is Russian-born. He is quite fluent in English, but once in awhile he gets hung up on an expression or two, and we never miss the chance to tease him about it. (Sorry Denis!) I've told you before about his tangling "hippopotamus" as "hippo-puh-thomas", many times over. There have been a few times when he has referred to toes as fingers and told his wife, via text message, that he had once had to endure a dental procedure without "anastasia". Yet his grammar is generally perfect. I will never, ever forget the day that we were in King, WI, seeking a Civil War statue on the grounds of the Veteran's Home there, while looking for where my ancestors were. We had sent him off to the fire department on the grounds with a picture of the statue, hoping they could help us find it. He came back with a big grin on his face. I asked what he was smiling about. He told me, "They said 'That ain't here no more' ". What a hoot that even HE knew what he had heard wasn't proper English! He is a champ!
Learning the lingo isn't always easy, and certainly never fun...but somehow, even with challenges, it still seems like magic to me. It takes children 2-3 years to speak English in a way that is generally acceptable to mainstream parents, but I studied French for five years in an English environment and never really got it right. I can still read French but would have trouble following the spoken word. But it's been 50 years since I was expected to do so. Big consideration!
I still think it's magic. My son-in-law had English lessons while in school in Russia, but his biggest boost to becoming fluent was all on him. He did 95% of it on his own. Wish my students would have been so dedicated. Who knows how much different the world would be if we were all bilingual!
Monday, March 5, 2018
Things I Just Don't Get
In my 71 years of age, I have come to know understanding as a two-pronged fork. Either you do, or you don't. Yet even that is complicated. There are things we understand at a cognitive level--things we can see or have been proven. That is the intellectual side of us that concludes that we understand a given issue based on what makes sense. Then there are things that we understand on an emotional level. This is where the heart trumps the brain with things that, if we were honest about them, wouldn't happen because they don't make sense, cognitively. Sometimes, making decisions about issues prods one part of us to accede to other parts of us...with disastrous results. If I truly don't understand a situation, I can say, "I don't understand"...which means, "Please fill me in with more details that make more sense to me"--things that fit into my experience that can help to fill the gaps in my level of comprehension. Sometimes, no amount of details or explanation will help, and that is when I say, not "I don't understand", but "I don't get it". That means that I don't understand, and no amount of explaining will help. It means I've tried to understand but it hasn't happened yet. It doesn't mean that I've given up--only that...well...I'm just not there yet and don't know that I ever will.
The first time I came to understand the "I don't get it" thing was back in the late 90s when I determined that I wanted to become an amateur radio operator. (How I came to that conclusion is a whole other post.) Suffice it to say that I was fascinated about the invisible things in the physical world that I wanted to be part of. Amateur radio geekdom was a whole other culture and brotherhood that I needed at the time. And I did it. I passed the tests by memorizing the answers. Truth be told, even though I TAUGHT electromagnetic waves to my elementary school students at one time, I didn't understand it all, myself. I resisted the old-time ham operators notion that you had to know how to take a radio apart and put it back together again to be a good radio operator. (I mean, you don't have to know how to fix a car in order to be a good driver. What's the difference??) In those days, I relied a lot on my other radio friends to do the stuff to help me that I couldn't do. They were wonderful in their support, sometimes in ways that saved my skin in life--not only in radio situations. I supplied the enthusiasm. They supplied the technical knowledge. It was a wonderful marriage of the minds. But to this day, I simply do not get how it all works, technically. I've studied and studied, but am convinced that I will never, ever really get it. I have the highest radio license possible. I got it honestly, but if I'd missed ONE more question on the FCC test, I would have failed. (What do you call the person who passes the medical class test with the lowest grade? Doctor!) And so it was/is with me.
Another thing I simply don't get is how to solve a Rubik's cube. Yeah, I know it isn't a big deal in life, but my grandson is really into cubing competitions. He's not in it to win but keeps shaving seconds off his "solving" time. Rubik's cubes have been around for a looong time. I have never, ever been able to solve one. My grandson can solve one, professionally scrambled, in about 18 seconds. That isn't even a record, but it blows my aged mind. He has tried to show me patterns in solving, that he can see in five seconds of pre-competition solves, but I simply don't think I can ever get it. God bless my grandson, he gave me a 3x3x3 cube for Christmas, which now sits on its stand on top of my computer hutch. I've thought about scrambling it and trying to solve it, but I don't believe for a second that I could do it...which means that the cube will stay in its pristine condition on my hutch until/unless he comes to visit to save me from a scrambled cube! It's like Big Bang Theory's episode about the Schrodinger's cat experiment. The cat, put in a sealed box, cannot be understood as alive or dead until the box is opened. I'm afraid to scramble my cube for fear that I can never solve it unless my grandson is here to do it!!
More problematic in the idea of understanding is trying to "get" what is not in your own experience. On the top of my list is depression/anxiety. My first introduction to someone with chronic depression was through my former in-law's friends, Delmas and Beulah. Beulah had been through everything known to medicine at the time to relieve her depression...even shock therapy...to no avail. My in-laws didn't understand it...and I didn't understand it. And then it hit my own family, from several angles.
When you first discover that someone you love is struck with depression or anxiety, the first reaction is to rush in to help, because it's just momentary, right? Oh...well...that didn't work. So the next step is to try harder...but it is never enough. You can say, "Buck up" or "Get off your butt and do stuff" or "You need to do this or that or blah, blah, blah"...but all of that is from a place of not understanding what it is like for the sufferer. YOU don't experience it, so YOU don't understand, no matter how much you love the person who is down. It's a pretty useless feeling for both sufferer and helper. It doesn't help to point out how they are wrong about their perceptions because their perceptions are their reality. Even worse is a person who suffers from it but doesn't accept it, trying to support someone who truly does. Anxiety is a physical/psychological response to an imagined threat to one's own well-being. It doesn't matter that the threat isn't really there. It doesn't matter that the sufferer is loved and supported in every way possible. It is their reality, and that reality is all they can feel. And sometimes, the anxiety-sufferer has already found ways to hide their fears and cope long before anyone else ever knew how he/she felt. And there's the rub. How can you help something you neither know nor understand? I don't get it.
That doesn't mean I don't care. It only means that I don't understand...and maybe I never will. But it doesn't mean I will ever stop trying. Old dogs DO learn new tricks. I just never give up. I will maintain my FCC radio license in spite of my technical ignorance. I might try to solve a Rubik's again some day. And I will continue to try to understand those of my family who are anxious.
I admit, I don't always get it, but I'll go to my grave trying!
The first time I came to understand the "I don't get it" thing was back in the late 90s when I determined that I wanted to become an amateur radio operator. (How I came to that conclusion is a whole other post.) Suffice it to say that I was fascinated about the invisible things in the physical world that I wanted to be part of. Amateur radio geekdom was a whole other culture and brotherhood that I needed at the time. And I did it. I passed the tests by memorizing the answers. Truth be told, even though I TAUGHT electromagnetic waves to my elementary school students at one time, I didn't understand it all, myself. I resisted the old-time ham operators notion that you had to know how to take a radio apart and put it back together again to be a good radio operator. (I mean, you don't have to know how to fix a car in order to be a good driver. What's the difference??) In those days, I relied a lot on my other radio friends to do the stuff to help me that I couldn't do. They were wonderful in their support, sometimes in ways that saved my skin in life--not only in radio situations. I supplied the enthusiasm. They supplied the technical knowledge. It was a wonderful marriage of the minds. But to this day, I simply do not get how it all works, technically. I've studied and studied, but am convinced that I will never, ever really get it. I have the highest radio license possible. I got it honestly, but if I'd missed ONE more question on the FCC test, I would have failed. (What do you call the person who passes the medical class test with the lowest grade? Doctor!) And so it was/is with me.
Another thing I simply don't get is how to solve a Rubik's cube. Yeah, I know it isn't a big deal in life, but my grandson is really into cubing competitions. He's not in it to win but keeps shaving seconds off his "solving" time. Rubik's cubes have been around for a looong time. I have never, ever been able to solve one. My grandson can solve one, professionally scrambled, in about 18 seconds. That isn't even a record, but it blows my aged mind. He has tried to show me patterns in solving, that he can see in five seconds of pre-competition solves, but I simply don't think I can ever get it. God bless my grandson, he gave me a 3x3x3 cube for Christmas, which now sits on its stand on top of my computer hutch. I've thought about scrambling it and trying to solve it, but I don't believe for a second that I could do it...which means that the cube will stay in its pristine condition on my hutch until/unless he comes to visit to save me from a scrambled cube! It's like Big Bang Theory's episode about the Schrodinger's cat experiment. The cat, put in a sealed box, cannot be understood as alive or dead until the box is opened. I'm afraid to scramble my cube for fear that I can never solve it unless my grandson is here to do it!!
More problematic in the idea of understanding is trying to "get" what is not in your own experience. On the top of my list is depression/anxiety. My first introduction to someone with chronic depression was through my former in-law's friends, Delmas and Beulah. Beulah had been through everything known to medicine at the time to relieve her depression...even shock therapy...to no avail. My in-laws didn't understand it...and I didn't understand it. And then it hit my own family, from several angles.
When you first discover that someone you love is struck with depression or anxiety, the first reaction is to rush in to help, because it's just momentary, right? Oh...well...that didn't work. So the next step is to try harder...but it is never enough. You can say, "Buck up" or "Get off your butt and do stuff" or "You need to do this or that or blah, blah, blah"...but all of that is from a place of not understanding what it is like for the sufferer. YOU don't experience it, so YOU don't understand, no matter how much you love the person who is down. It's a pretty useless feeling for both sufferer and helper. It doesn't help to point out how they are wrong about their perceptions because their perceptions are their reality. Even worse is a person who suffers from it but doesn't accept it, trying to support someone who truly does. Anxiety is a physical/psychological response to an imagined threat to one's own well-being. It doesn't matter that the threat isn't really there. It doesn't matter that the sufferer is loved and supported in every way possible. It is their reality, and that reality is all they can feel. And sometimes, the anxiety-sufferer has already found ways to hide their fears and cope long before anyone else ever knew how he/she felt. And there's the rub. How can you help something you neither know nor understand? I don't get it.
That doesn't mean I don't care. It only means that I don't understand...and maybe I never will. But it doesn't mean I will ever stop trying. Old dogs DO learn new tricks. I just never give up. I will maintain my FCC radio license in spite of my technical ignorance. I might try to solve a Rubik's again some day. And I will continue to try to understand those of my family who are anxious.
I admit, I don't always get it, but I'll go to my grave trying!
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