The Blast

For days, the weather forecast hasn't been good. Over the past 24 hours, the rhetoric has become more severe. "Potentially catastrophic." "Storm of a lifetime." You get the picture... Central Indiana is to be hit with freezing rain and "considerable icing". Then the snow will hit. (My grandchildren in Zion, IL, are under a blizzard warning with the potential of 16 inches of snow or more.) Ice, wind, heavy snow, and bitter cold temps all make for the possibility of power outages, which is my biggest fear. I have been preparing for several days. *I have three oil lamps, fully loaded, with extra oil and extra wicks, and lots of matches. I have flashlights with relatively new batteries. I have plenty of food and toilet paper. Normally, the water would still work even if the power were out, but I have stockpiled some, just in case. All of the laundry is done. All of the dishes are washed. I have made a pot of chili. I have a gas stove which should work in a power outage as long as I manually light the burners. The snow shovel, sidewalk salt, windshield de-icer, and snowbrush/scraper are by the front door. I purchased a land-line telephone and have it hooked up in the living room. The cell phone is charged. I purchased extra batteries for a portable radio and hand-held amateur radio. Got my hair cut. I have plenty of blankets and a sleeping bag. I bought some yarn for a crochet project, and have both a book to read and a puzzle book to work, by lamplight, if need be. I even got some cash in case some delightful young entrepreneurs show up on my doorstep and want to shovel me out. In short, I've done everything I know how to do to prepare for this mess, which has a lot of hype on the media right now. *Please, God...I can handle deep snow. I can even handle ice. But I REALLY don't want to deal with a power outage! *Freezing rain is occurring in Plainfield right now. Here we go!

Artie McNary

In Sunday school today, we were charged to name someone in our lives who had influenced us by living as Christ wants us to live. I thought and thought about the saintly Christian people in my life whom I have always admired, but the one name that kept coming back to me was Artie McNary, my former father-in-law. *Artie was a little man with a flat-top haircut. He was a farmer on a 40-acre farm near Greencastle, IN, and an employee of IBM there for many years. He was a tool-and-die maker. In retirement, he had a little lawn mower repair business. People trusted him. *Artie wasn't book-smart. He probably read at a 2nd grade reading level, but there was nothing dumb about him. In old age, when he was undergoing radiation treatments for prostate cancer one winter, he started reading Louis L'Amour westerns, just to keep his mind busy. I think he had every book L'Amour ever wrote and used IBM cards to keep his place, making notes on the cards to keep the characters straight. *When it came to mechanical problems, his son and I were careful not to present too many concerns to him because Artie would keep himself awake nights just figuring out how to fix whatever was wrong. He would worry and worry about something until he finally had an answer, and his answer was most always a good one. *Artie was no saint. He didn't smoke; he didn't drink. Still, he was a character. He had opinions, but never foisted them on anyone other than himself. If he was wrong about something, he admitted it. And he was honest. Maybe TOO honest. He was known in all of the Greencastle area as someone who took care of his things and was meticulous about his relationships with others. I liken him to the image of Honest Abe Lincoln. If Artie owed you a nickel, he would go way out of his way to make sure you got it. He was well-respected in the Greencastle area...and in mine. *It's pretty hard to characterize someone like Artie and his wife. I'm not sure that Artie ever went to church, but he certainly embodied the things that Christ wants us to do. *My special memories of Artie mean a lot to me. On one occasion, as we were walking up the hill to his house, he thanked me for making it easy for he and Helen (his wife) to see their grandchildren (Joe's kids) without divorce jealousies. That was so meaningful, largely because my own husband had never thanked me for the efforts I made for his children. Another time, Artie and Helen were watching our daughter at my house in Plainfield so I could be in IL with my ill father...and suddenly a new cabinet door appeared. The door had been absent when I bought the house. I had no idea how to find someone to replace it, but Artie did. It took a huge responsibility off my shoulders. *But here is the kicker: When my mother died suddenly in 1986, (long story) Artie and Helen drove from Greencastle, IN, to Streator, IL, just for the funeral. They really didn't know my mother, and wouldn't stay for the bereavement dinner, but when I turned away from my mother's grave under the tent, there was Artie, tears streaming down his face, giving me a hug that spoke worlds to me. I will never, ever, forget that moment. *Artie passed from this world in 1994, just a few months after my father did, and my stepchildren's maternal grandfather. All three of the McNary children lost their grandfathers in the same year. I missed my father, of course, but I was shocked at how much I missed Artie. This plucky little guy had made a huge different in my life. I miss him to this day.

Kid Art

I was blessed with a little bit of artistic talent...or at least an eye for it. Somewhere around the house here, I have a "bird book" that was created in 2nd grade, and I have to admit that my bird pictures were pretty darned good for my age back then. Of my young attempts, only the bird book and two bilious attempts at ceramic art remain--an elephant sitting on his butt, and a mermaid on a rock. How can I throw them away? *Back when Megan (my daughter) was in middle school, she produced some things that have equal non-discardable status in the house. One is a piece of black plastic, diamond-shaped, that is a clock. It hangs on the living room wall and continues to keep perfect time! It isn't beautiful, but it functions as the only time-keeper in that room. I could never, ever, throw it out! Another piece of her artwork from the same era, or just before, was a multi-colored collage of theatrical masks, done in marker. I loved it! I found a frame that worked well with it, and it still graces a wall in my house. *Slightly over a year ago, after my granddaughter was sent to live with her father, I was in receipt of her "things" from her school here in Plainfield. Among them was a perfectly beautiful water-color release "wash" of sea animals that Robin had done in her art class. I looked and looked at that all that fall. It was magnificent for second grade and deserved something to make it special. After searching long and hard for a frame that would fit the picture size, I finally found an appropriate frame (wrote about it on here). The frame was a whopping $45, but I thought the art was worth it. I wasn't sure how it would be received as a Christmas gift since it wasn't a toy. Even when Robin unwrapped it, she didn't seem all that impressed, but what followed told the tale. When each faction of the family arrived at the door that day, she sat on the couch with the picture on her lap facing outward so everyone could see it. That was the best $45 I ever spent! The picture still graces the wall in her bedroom and gets comments from people who see it. "You did that???" *My grandson, Ryan, doesn't have his sister's artistic bent, but he is in awe of it. He is more into sports, but I can see his envy for Robin's talent. This Christmas, after his mother and stepfather left for California, he took some colored pencils that he got as a gift, and instead of doing the color-by-number picture he was given, he just started drawing. Ryan NEVER draws! He drew a female with blonde hair and colorful stockings like his mother had worn, but said it was a picture of his "sister". Robin reminded him that he didn't have any blonde sisters. I think he was drawing his mommy, but he wouldn't admit to it...and it was absolutely the best picture that I had ever seen from him. After the children went home, I found the picture on the living room floor, folded as if to be a paper airplane--probably part of his discouragement--but I fixed him! I sent the picture to his mother in California, so he now knows how much we loved it. *I know how stupid this sounds, but just a little faith in someone's young talent can make such a big difference. When I was in second grade and we had moved into a brand new house in Danville, IL, my mother showed me a catalog. She said something like, "You have a good eye. Which one of these two sets of draperies would you pick?" Unbelievably to me, she bought the ones I chose! I never forgot it. Such a little thing but so big an impact! It's all good. God bless the children!

Come On, America!

We are getting a little extreme, aren't we? Since I am retired and relatively shut in by weather, I watch a lot of television. Or, perhaps I should say that the TV is always on SOMEWHERE in the house...for company. Doesn't mean I am watching it. But I am getting really weary of the "experts" telling us what is good for us by way of food. We are being bombarded with reports of how fat we have become and what is/isn't healthy. I think the powers that be believe that education is the answer. Sorry! Not true! I KNOW what is supposedly healthy for me. I just don't always choose to eat it! Trust me: we don't like being fat...but we are in a society that celebrates happy (and sad) occasions with family dinners, meals out, and good booze. But now we have the Fat Police. Parts of California have banned Happy Meal treats. Schools have replaced snack machine offering with "healthier" choices. Ad nauseum. So...what is the true culprit that America is getting fatter with each passing year? Care to know my opinion? LONELINESS. *Cell phones and the Internet and our mobile society have made us a nation of lonely people. We don't have to be face-to-face with people anymore. We can create our own environments that may or may not be based on reality. We are so afraid of perverts and scam artists and criminals that we don't let our children go out to play or venture into the outside world ourselves. We are glued to our televisions, watching bad news and bad programming. Teen Mom and Jersey Shore and other horrible examples of Americana make us look like a nation of wimps. What's left to feel comforted and encouraged? FOOD. I am as guilty as anyone else. I'm already heavy, but have gained 10 pounds this winter. Why? Because I'm lonely. Unlike my father, I have never suffered from hunger...but I have suffered. *This month's Reader's Digest has an article about diet which blasts everything I have learned. According to the article, carbohydrates are the problem with weight. That means that fats and proteins are good...which raises cholesterol and blood fats. What's a heart patient to do?? *Until and unless America recognizes the REAL problem with why we overeat, it ain't gonna get better. I'm just tired of hearing about it!

Organ Donation

So...an officer of IMPD was shot on Sunday. He was hit in the cheek, in the chin, in the thigh, and on his bullet-proof vest. He's been in a coma, "fighting for his life". Naively, I wondered how those particular injuries could be so grave, but they did an MRI on him yesterday and discovered that one bullet fractured his spine and another went through his brain stem and major blood vessels. The police chief held a press conference this evening to announce that the doctors have determined that he cannot recover from his injuries, that his family is preparing to "give David back to God," and that they are in the process of donating his organs. It's sad, really. He is a good looking young man, laid low by a nasty criminal with a long "rap" sheet. I think it is the family's hope that he will live on after this tragedy by giving his viable organs away to those who need them. It is a noble effort. *My only brush with organ donation came at the same time as my biggest brush with death: the brain aneurysm rupture. I felt pretty punk, but I didn't feel like I was dying. Still, I was airlifted to St. Francis Hospital in Peoria, IL, from Memorial Hospital in Springfield. It was night time. Once there, I was plunked into ICU. (I had to ask. I still didn't feel bad enough to be critical.) Once I was settled in, the nurse--a man--told me I could watch TV if I wanted to. I expressed concern that I would disturb the person in the other bed. His sad response was, "I wish you COULD disturb her." Without asking too many questions, I discovered that she was in her late 40s and brain dead, on a respirator, with the same malady as I had. Pretty sobering! *She and I remained roommates through my tests, craniotomy, and beyond. She didn't have many visitors because she wasn't conscious, but family members would come in, from time to time, and talk to/weep over her. "We will miss you," they'd say. One said, "You always had such beautiful eyes, and now someone else is going to see with them." I wanted out of there, not because I was afraid for myself, but because I felt that I was intruding--even with the curtain closed--on some very private and personal moments in the lives of that family. It also seemed like an insult to them that I was alive and well, when their loved one wasn't going to recover. She was kept alive for organ donation. *One night, a team of people in scrubs arrived with satchels and computers and all kinds of clap-trap. The comings and goings went on all night. They were the organ donation team. To my knowledge, no surgical procedures were occurring on the other side of the curtain, but apparently there are a lot of tests to take and data to gather. Although I hadn't said anything, my night nurse was apologetic, saying they were trying to find a bed for me outside of ICU. It was a long night. (In hospitals, every night is long!) The next day, I was put in a regular room. *I don't know the agony that Patrolman David Moore's family is enduring right now, but I have a hint. I was an unwilling spectator in one family's tragedy. I hope they got some comfort in knowing that parts of their loved one lived on. I hope the same for Patrolman Moore's family.

I Forgot...

In the confessions of my "eating machine" syndrome of yesterday, I forgot a couple of other items that I ate. Another of my indulgences was one of those quick-cups of macaroni and cheese that I plopped some canned peas into...and yet another was (get this) a bowl of high-fiber Kashi cereal. You know, the kind that has almost half of your daily fiber needs in one cup? Hmmm...wonder if that was the piece de resistance that threw my digestion in the crapper...literally? *Oprah did a show today looking back on a few of her "Coming Out Day" stories, where she had gay guests that talked about how the shows had changed their lives. Almost without exception, the guests--both male and female--said they knew they were gay when they were quite young. How is that? I was probably in junior high school before I even knew what homosexuals were--largely because the boys all called each other "homos" on the playground. (Back then, the term "gay" still meant happy and carefree.) What did we know about homosexuality back then? (What do we know about homosexuality NOW?) *I was one of those kids who played cowboys and Indians. I always had to be Roy Rogers, yet I am female. I had toy guns (much to my mother's chagrin). I climbed trees and went barefoot all summer. I had dolls, but I rarely ever played with them. I was an outdoor kid, a rock collector. I didn't think babies were ooooh, so cute, and I didn't particularly like to dress up or be treated like a princess. In short, I was a tom-boy. If I had been thinking about sexuality back then, I might have wondered if I were a lesbian. I didn't have interest in boys OR girls back then. I just wanted friends to play with because we moved to often for me to have any. *One of the female guests on Oprah today mentioned that she fell in love with another woman while married to a man. She apparently had no inkling that she was lesbian before that. Well...I remember falling in love with another female back in junior high. We had just moved to Oak Park, IL. My newfound friend's name was Kathy. She wasn't particularly pretty; she had arms like Michelle Obama and could do more chin-ups than any of the boys, as well as outrun them all. She was very smart (in fact was skipped a grade in junior high) and came from an affluent family. Her parents treated me like I was another member of their family, and my parents threw another plate on the table for dinner if Kathy was staying. (She'd always ask what we were having first because she wouldn't stay if we were having liver and onions.) She good-naturedly made fun of my folks' little pot-bellied aluminum salt and pepper shakers (that I still have, just because of that). She wasn't quite five feet tall. If she was going through the hall at my house in one direction, and my dad was in the same hall going the other direction, he backed her down the hall with his belly. She laughed. Her father and I danced all over their living room while we were listening to "The Rain in Spain" from My Fair Lady. I loved everything about Kathy and wished I could be just like her. After she'd go home after spending the night, I'd lie on my bed and cry because I missed her and could still smell her hair on the pillow. Did that mean I was a lesbian? Of course not! *So how do all these people know at age 5 or 15 or 35 that they are homosexual? Because they played like people of the opposite sex or fell in love with someone of the same sex??? I'm not doubting them. I'm just saying that I don't get it. Maybe I'm not supposed to...

Home Sick: My Own Story

Once upon a time, when I was an elementary school librarian/media specialist, there was a Newberry Award Honor book entitled Homesick: My Own Story. I have borrowed the title, with a space between "home" and "sick" to fit my own purposes. Last night, I was home...and sick. *Yesterday, I was an eating machine. I started the day by finishing the Bob Evans mashed potatoes so I could take my morning pills. A little later, I finished off the Tyson meat loaf by making it into a sandwich. After that, I had two fairly large helpings of leftover cabbage, ham, and potatoes. Then, there was most of a tube of Club crackers and some creamed cheese that were calling to me. A bottle of caffeine-free Diet Pepsi. A few Hershey's kisses. All of this by noon. Just about the time I needed to be getting ready to drive to Monrovia to help with the radio club at my old school, I became aware that my belly was giving me little twinges of cramps. Then the diarrhea hit. It wasn't so bad at first, but it got progressively worse as the day went on. Needless to say, I didn't go to Monrovia. I decided to stick close to home and deal with the challenges. Horrible to say, but in the beginning of the discomfort, I was still looking for food. I had actually taken ingredients out of the pantry to make a macaroni and chicken casserole! In short order, I realized that I shouldn't be putting anything else in my stomach...and so the long evening/night began. Through the waves of cramps and trips to the bathroom, I felt better lying down. (Cramping always causes me to feel cold, so I huddled under the covers, fully dressed. It helped.) *Finally, by about 10:30 PM, the cramps and bathroom trips had slowed down, so I could doze. I sipped on some water and made it through the night. Whew! *I don't make a very good sick person. When I was a young kid, I think I enjoyed the Sympathy Factor because my well-being was somebody else's responsibility. As an adult, however, I just endure. I have adult friends who go to bed and stay down for days just with a nasty cold. I can't do that. Unless I'm in pain (which I was last night), I stay up and moving as best I can. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm not crazy about people fussing over me when I'm ill. I just wait to feel better again. Of course, the time will come when the illness from which I cannot recover will hit, but for now, I do what I do. *Why is that? I wish I knew! As a younger person, I would seek medical attention for this thing or that thing right away. Most of the time, doctors would give me the news that nothing was broken or seriously wrong, and I just needed to go home and take care of myself until I got better. Now, I do that FIRST. If I don't get better, THEN I seek medical attention. It's worked, so far. (Okay...well, perhaps I was a little foolish the night of my ruptured aneurysm, but I didn't feel good enough to get out of bed, much less leave the house to see a doctor! Thankfully, I survived!) Once upon a time, I had debilitating migraine headaches that nothing helped. Then they disappeared forever. I outgrew them. I look at things that way now. "I'll get past this. I usually do!" *So, here I am, the day after the heebie-jeebies hit. I am eating (lightly) and will take it easy for the day, but I feel okay. I am so thankful for that!!