The Poverty-Go-Round

I've written about my young former student Bruce before.  (Bruce isn't his real name but will suffice.)      Bruce is on the Autism Spectrum, and has been all his life.  He's very smart and talented but has always lived under (and been somewhat protected by) his disability.  He's in his late 20s now and living independently for the first time in his life for almost a year now.  

In spite of fits and starts with college schooling and an occasional job here and there which never panned out for long because he has no driver's license or means of transportation except by the generosity of others, and a couple of physical limitations beyond his Spectrum things, he hasn't gained much traction in the world.  Know what he has gained?  Weight!  The poor guy huffs and puffs as bad as I do--and that isn't good.  I worry about him, scold him, recommend things to him....etc.....but he is in that swirling whirlpool of poverty that sucks in good people as well as bad.  Sometimes, the whirlpool makes bad people out of those who were once good; sometimes, it drives good people to stop trying.  Unlike what the Republicans seem to believe, that one only needs to pick him/herself up by the boot straps to change things, I was in the financial dumps enough to know that the resulting thinking is:  "Why should I try?  No matter how hard I work, nothing changes."

This is how I have felt for Bruce.  Although he is a 29-year-old man now, he's still one of "my" kids.  I hurt every time things don't go easily.  In the end, he/we succeed but not without complications.  Honestly, I just don't think things have to be this hard. 

Here are some examples of frustrating things, prefaced by the fact that Bruce lives in governmental housing in Mooresville, Indiana, while I live in Plainfield, IN--a distance of, perhaps, ten miles.  It takes me 15-20 minutes in good traffic to get to his apartment complex.

The Driver's Permit:

I decided that one of things I needed to help Ben with was procuring a driver's license, which begins by getting a learner's permit.  The closest Bureau of Motor Vehicles office is in Plainfield, so I picked him up, brought him back to Plainfield to the BMV, paid his fee, and waited for him to pass the test, which he did on the first try!  Thereafter, we ran other errands before I took him home.  

I put out a bid on Facebook asking for recommendations for driver's training.  I had a benefactor who volunteered that he'd like to pay for Bruce to get professional lessons.  An answer to unspoken prayer! However, that boat was slow to leave the dock, but before it did, the pandemic hit.  Virtually everything shut down except "essentials", but even the essentials were iffy.  

I think I figured that Bruce's family would then take over to teach him to drive.  That didn't happen due to (I think) vehicle insurance reasons.  Thus, we waited out the pandemic, and when things began to open up again, we discovered that his learner's permit had expired.  It was also his main means of ID.  He did a little research via phone calls, only to be told that he needed to take the test again.  Okay...

I picked him up and brought him back to the BMV a couple of years later to retake the test and renew his permit.  Somehow, he failed the test.  So...where did this leave us now?  I started nagging him to study for the test (again), but he was dragging his feet.  (I don't blame him!)  Then, he found out through other means that he had been wrongly informed.  All he needed to do was pay a fee to renew his permit rather than start over from scratch.  That was a relief!

So, once again, I picked him up and took him to the BMV.  I handed him cash for the fees and sent him in.  He came out far too quickly.  It seems that, since his address had changed since his original permit was issued, he needed to supply a piece of mail with his new address on it.  (He had NOT been told that when he inquired about what documentation was required.)  I hesitated for a moment or two before deciding that I would take him back to his apartment to pick up a piece of mail with his address on it and go back to the BMV.  

Once again, he came out too soon.  He hadn't been made to understand that the piece of mail with his address on it also had to have his name on it.  What he had picked up was a piece of "Occupant" mail; so, once again, we were thwarted.  I wasn't willing to burn another trip to Mooresville and back.  Fortunately, Bruce has an "associate" with social services who was willing and able to take him back to the BMV the next day.  Mission accomplished!  Has he found driver's training yet?  No.  Does he have a driver's license yet?  No.  Will this happen in my lifetime?  Who knows!

Paying Bills:

One time, Bruce owed some money to the apartment complex in which he lives.  I took him, cash in hand, to the office to pay the bill.  He came out very shortly to say that they wouldn't accept cash.  He needed a personal check or money order.  Although he had a bank account, he didn't have checks.  

I took him to his bank to order checks.  Most banks will give temporary checks to be used until real ones come in--but not his.  Although I had given him cash to pay for it, his bank informed him that check order fees have to come out of his account.  He wasn't working at the time and didn't have the $20 or so in his account.  Mission thwarted.  He was advised that money orders are cheaper, but money orders require transportation to go to the places where they are issued. 

Jump forward many months.  He's working now--part time--like 12 hours a week, so he has a little money in his bank account.  I took him, once again, to order checks--this time, successfully.  Now he's a big boy!  But what a red tape runaround it has been!

Establishing Benefits: 

In the fall, Bruce was trying to get help with utility payments.  He wasn't working then.  He did have rent assistance through his government housing; he did have food stamps and Medicaid; but he had no income with which to pay his gas and electric bills.  He was seeking assistance with utilities through the state for the winter, and somehow, he needed to provide his Social Security card.  (Not merely his number.)  He didn't have it, and his mother couldn't find it, so he was launched into a process to replace his lost card before anything else could be accomplished.  He needed ID (hence, the need for the driver's permit), birth certificate, and other forms of ID in order to get his SS card replaced.  It took weeks.  Only then could he apply for energy assistance.  It only goes through winter, so we'll see how thing pan out during warmer temps.

Clothing:

Bruce is a big boy and growing.  Finding him clothing that will fit has become more and more difficult.  He gets food stamps from the government which buy less and less as prices go higher and higher.  He tends to buy what he likes rather than what is healthy.  He's had meetings with nutritionists, but what they advise falls on deaf ears.  Bruce eats a lot of comfort foods, without apology, and if one takes him out to eat, he prefers buffets.  Pizza is his drug of choice.

Finding clothing that will fit Bruce has become a problem.  He's into 5-6X men's sizes, and they get expensive and hard to find.  Since his income from his part time employment is limited, he is reluctant to spend what he has on clothing (unless it has a NASCAR theme).

Bottom line:  

We go round and round on the poverty carousel with Bruce.  Me, as a person who cares.  His mother as an invested person without much ability to help.  His cousin whose help is spotty but welcome.  The county's social services that can only help so far...  If there is someone in your life who is in the poverty loop through no fault of their own, may Heaven bless you for any effort you make to help.  There, but for the grace of God, go we all.

           

    

Procrastination is My Middle Name!

 I've been wrestling with the devil for days.

I was so proud of my autistic friend Bruce for biting the bullet and spending some of his hard earned money on some new pants--specifically, three pairs of jeans. They arrived unhemmed, so I volunteered to hem them for him. After all, I've done lots of sewing in my day...blah, blah.

I picked up the pants from him on Saturday, knowing that he had to have at least one pair done for work on Tuesday. Had the whoooole weekend to work on them. Took the rest of the day off.

On Sunday, I attended online church, then watched some TV--all the while knowing that I just needed to get started on those pants. But...they were heavy denim, which would be hard on my hands...and I knew they would take longer than usual...and I knew I wasn't going to be satisfied with the "by hand" results. But I haven't used my sewing machine in forever and had somewhat messed it up the last time I did. Needless to say, I didn't even get started on Sunday. This is where the devil-bargaining began.

Monday, I had to have at least one hemmed pair to take to Bruce for work on Tuesday. (He didn't have other pants to rely on. One had a rip, and one had lost a button. Neither fit.) I had the whole day to hem one pair of heavy denim jeans in order to get them to him by dark. (I don't drive after dark.)

I dragged my feet. I watched TV. I made some food. I kept telling myself that I needed to get started--get out my sewing box...find the best light to do the job...etc. An hour passed. Another hour passed. I was beginning to panic due to my own inaction.

Okay, so maybe I can do the measuring and pinning, and my friend Judy maybe has her sewing machine already set up and can do the stitching. I'll just do one pair on Monday. That will give me two days to do the others before Bruce needs them. Or, he could wear the finished pair twice in one week, which would give me a few more days to do the other two. OR, he could just wear old, ripped pants that don't fit until my brain can gear up. I was trying to make things easier on me. Panic set in. I didn't even call Judy...

All the while, the devil was screaming in my ear, "No! You volunteered! You procrastinated! Someone was counting on you, but you have failed! You have let Bruce down! Now you must suffer the consequences of your behavior! You must face shame and embarrassment!

And then...and then...a dove of peace descended over my head--along with a light bulb idea.

I got on my computer and Googled local clothing alteration shops. In two phone calls, I found a professional seamstress close by who was willing to hem all three pairs of jeans on short notice and have them ready by 5:30. (It was already after 2:00 PM.) The Heavens opened and a choir of angels sang The Hallelujah Chorus. I felt such relief! Yes, I had to pay her $12.50 for each pair of jeans hemmed, but it was worth every penny. Wish I had just done all of this on Saturday when I picked up the pants from Bruce. It would have saved me a whole weekend of anxiety.

Get thee behind me, Satan! I win this time!

Getting Lost in My Feelings of Guilt

 Although it may not seem so in my posts on this blog, I am capable of deep thinking.  One deep thought leads to another, and suddenly I am drenching myself in tears for all of the past things that happened where I missed the boat--dropped the ball--whatever cliche' is appropriate for "didn't do what I should have but didn't realize it at the time".  

Several days ago, one of my dearest friends and teaching colleagues posted a video on Facebook of children in an elementary school in Clarksville, Indiana, singing We Are the World, a song written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie in the 1980s, and performed by 45 iconic music artists in the USA, in an effort to raise money to help feed starving children in Africa.  The children's version, with pure, strong voices, and adorable, innocent faces was every bit as good--and brought me to tears.  What kind of world are we leaving to the children?  Who really cares about the children?  We are so wrapped up in our politics and disagreements that we forget that when we are long gone, these children of the world will remain to mop up after what we have given them.  And that's where the guilt starts.

Every parent on the planet carries this guilt.  Was I there for my child when she needed me?   Did I understand?  What did I do wrong?  How could I have done better?  Can she ever forgive me for my mistakes?  Did I ever do anything right?  And, of course, that carries over to the grandchildren, causing me to have many dreams about protecting them.  (Guilt even follows me when I'm sleeping!) 

I had a very savvy male leader of a parenting class my husband and I took when our child was young, who offered to hold my guilt for me so I wouldn't have to carry it around.  He told me he would give it back to me any time I thought I needed it.  His point was not lost on me.  I got it.  Guilt is a non-productive emotion (if it can be considered an emotion).  We don't need it.  We can't really move forward with it.  To paraphrase the old Hallmark ad, "Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving."  And yet...there it is.  

I've heard Dr. Phil ask parents of children who are out of control, "So you are parenting out of guilt?"  Many don't know they are until he elaborates it right before their eyes.  The response is usually something like, "I never thought of it that way before."  Even recovering alcoholics following a 12-step program are told to make amends to people they have inadvertently hurt in the course of their addiction.  Is it ever enough?

That was a very long intro to what is troubling me right now.  I find my heart dissolving.  The more I see of animals and their behavior, the more I know that we, as human animals, have totally misjudged their ability to think and feel.  The more I see of life and understand, the more my heart breaks for how stupid we humans can be.  As an example, although I consider myself a Christian, I'm not a Bible-thumper, judging others by the words of humans, however inspired.  I'm all for meeting people wherever they are in the continuum of the universe.  If one is gay, bi, lesbian, trans, "queer" or whatever, more power to them.  Why should that bother me?  I'm none of those, but I totally get that others are.  Others, created by God.  They deserve nothing less from a free society of citizens to have the same rights as every other citizen of that same society.  

There was a time, not too many years ago, that I expressed not understanding the whole "trans" thing.  I think I wrote something about putting lipstick on a pig.  It was ugly.  One day, in a moment of clarity, I realized that I wasn't expected to understand it.  Christ expected me to accept it without understanding.  (Isn't that what faith is?)  I surrendered.  The trans experience is not my experience, so I have no right to judge.  I still feel bad about my earlier feelings.  Hello, guilt!

So now, the ruckus in Ukraine raises it's ugly head.  Those who are pro-Russia assume that Russia is somehow protecting its people by invading the country.  (Yeah...I don't get that.)  The Ukrainians are fighting, non-stop, for their freedom.  Many...most?...here in the States are in sympathy with Ukraine.  But why do we feel their pain more than we have felt other invasions/tragedies, worldwide?  I shudder to admit that part of the reason, I think, is that they look like us.  They aren't black.  They aren't primitive.  They don't live in huts or herd sheep and cattle.  They wear shoes.  They are--if you will excuse me for saying so-- white.  

When it hit me, I was already into the We Are the World, thing, questioning my questions.   What have I done to change things?  Nothing, except verbal support.  How will the world change?  When we understand that the world is all ONE people with the same needs and hopes and dreams.  Should we feel guilty?  YES.  Accepting the status quo precludes change.  I'm not a rebel, but God knows that I want to die in peace, knowing that the future is secure for my grandchildren and their children.  

One last note:  my son-in-law and his parents are all Russian-Americans.  The US is much better for having them in it.  I know how much it must hurt them to see what's going on back home now, but I--for one--am very happy that they are safely out of that mess.  Sorry...I know what they have sacrificed, but I only feel slightly guilty about that!

Not sure if guilty feelings rest only on women.  I'd like to think that anyone who embraces truth will share the burden when times get tough.  Times are tough now.  People are tense, irritable, and out of touch.  None of us asked for this; thus, none of us should further it.  If guilt helps people to understand the other side of any story, bring it on.  I'm not sure I will ever be free of feeling that I've failed in life, but I do keep trying, with God's help, to be better!

I Got a Letter This Week...

 The letter that I got was from the Indiana University Health network, announcing that my Primary Care Physician is leaving her practice, as of April 29th.  That kind of threw me into a tizzy because I really liked this gal, and her office was local.  In the letter, some other doctors were recommended, but they were all in the community to the north of us.  Not something I really wanted.

For many years, I didn't have a PCP--someone we used to call a Family Doctor.  Those, of course, were in the years when I was younger and didn't have many health problems.  Once I was eligible for Medicare (government-funded health care for the elderly in the U.S.), my supplemental insurance required that I have a PCP, so they appointed one for me.  I saw him exactly once before he left his practice for an administrative position somewhere.  Then there was the heart attack, so I was scheduled to meet with my cardiologist on a regular basis for my heart and blood fat levels, etc.  If I had any other problems, I would head down to the immediate care center down the road from me, or the Emergency Room if I felt particularly scared.  At one point, my cardiologist looked at me and said, "I'm your only doctor, aren't I?"  I confessed that he was, so he got busy to recommend some to me; thus, I established with the one I have now who is leaving at the end of April.  

Truth be known, I have left a number of doctors because they were problematic to me:  one I left because he was treating me and my young daughter condescendingly and had questionable manner; one I left because she told me I had a sexually transmitted disease and that I needed to alert all of my sex  partners.  When I tried to tell her I didn't have any sex partners so wasn't sure how I could have an STD, she waved me off as if to say, "Yeah, yeah, yeah....I've heard it all before."  I never went back--not out of embarrassment, but anger.  And one I left because I had asked for some answers about my back.  He ordered an x-ray.  When the results returned, he told me that my back showed "weakness", as if my muscles weren't strong enough to support it.  I'm sorry.  I'm not an idiot.  X-rays don't show weakness.  They show bones.  He never mentioned a word about the bones.  Nothing about bulging disc or arthritis or degeneration.  Nope.  Just weakness.  Thereafter, he departed his practice, at the same time that I departed his practice.  But I digress...                  

Okay, so I called my current PCP (about whom I had gotten the letter), to make an appointment, just to check in one last time.  I got in the very next day.  It had been awhile since I'd had blood work done, and I just wanted a check-up.  I'm so glad I did that!  Of course, she ordered the blood work, etc., but she also suggested that the letter I had received failed to mention other doctors right there in her own office facility that she would recommend.  Huge relief!  I didn't have to do the dance to figure out doctors who were still taking new patients who were also local enough not to have to drive out of town just for an appointment.  I left Dr. Dunn's office with a June appointment for the new doc.  Yay!

My blood work results came in two days later.  They show me as "pre-diabetic", which means I need to get with the program and get my weight down, among other things.  I know how to lose weight.  I just need to quit making pandemic excuses and just do it.  

And everybody said, "Amen"!   

Signs of Spring in the American Midwest

 In the winter here in the Midwest (Illinois, where I was born, and Indiana, where I now live), the days are fraught with planning ahead.  We need to dig the snow shovel out of storage, put the ice scraper/snow brush back in the car, find the ice melt shaker, and keep an eye on the weather forecast to determind when or if one needs to stock up on food or vices of choice.  Liquor stores and smoke shops will see an uptick in sales.  Those with disabilities (like me) need to arrange for a company for snow removal over a certain amount.  To say I am fortunate to be retired so I really don't have to worry about getting up and out on a snowy/icy morning is an understatement.

Slowly, slowly, over the weeks and months of isolation due to cold, etc., the season gives way to signs that spring is coming.  First come the sprouts of early spring plants and flowers.  Tulips, daffodils, sedum, grape hyacinth, and crocus all pop through the soil, and sometimes through snow.  Then come flocks of geese flying north, and sandhill cranes even higher up but still hearable.  Sometimes, simultaneously, the robins will arrive from the south, and the spring peepers--the little chirping frogs--will brighten the air with their sounds in the evenings.  Of course, we will also get a hint that spring is well on the way when the temperatures rise to tolerable.  People are out walking their dogs and their children, just soaking up the warm air and sunshine.  

My friends, spring has arrived in Central Indiana.  My sedum is up.  I have seen my first very welcome robin (in my front yard on the day after my birthday).  Friends have heard the cranes and the peepers.  New life!  Rebirth!  Getting ready for Easter, which is early this year.  It sure feels good to have the windows open and the outside smells coming in again.  Love it!       

All Eyes on Ukraine

Look...I'm not a military strategist, a politician, or even an internet "influencer".  In the grand scheme of things, I am a nobody.  But I'm a nobody that cares about our tiny blue-dot planet and the people who live on it.  

I have a Russian-American son-in-law who has been in the US since 2008, and is now a prosperous American citizen.  This young man is a hunk...extremely intelligent...a kick-ass provider for my daughter and grandchildren (from another marriage).  He keeps some Russian traditions, particularly around New Year, but he speaks English better than most Americans.  Truth be known, he is as American as the winter is cold.  When he left Russia, it was with the understanding that he would never go back.  He has never really expressed any regret for not going back to his homeland, even just for a visit.  His parents are also here in the US, and also citizens now.  

Back when the Olympics were held in Sochi, Russia, I was here in Indiana, watching, and Denis and my daughter Megan were in Grayslake, IL, also watching.  We traded texts through it all.  I kept waiting for the Russian Cossack dancers to perform in the opening ceremonies, but they never did.  When I complained to Meg and Den about it, Denis informed me that Cossack dancers were actually Ukrainian and not Russian.  OMG!  I had no clue!  Then something else came up, and Den informed that what I was looking for was also Ukrainian.  Even the language, according to my son-in-law, is "pretty much the same thing".  Thus, I lost faith in my previous confidence in my knowledge of other cultures.  It's never too late to teach an old dog new tricks.

Russia has eyed Ukraine for years to take it back to the former years of the USSR.  Ukraine has other ideas.  And now, Russia has invaded Ukraine in an effort to snag it as Russian territory, with the excuse that they are trying to "protect" their people (or whatever).  What the world is witnessing now is ALL people of Ukraine finding ways to fight back.  From ballet dancers to breast-feeding mothers.  People are making molotov cocktails.  And the rest of us cheer for them.  That doesn't make light of the depth of their sacrifices of life, family, and homeland.  

Russia is a huge country.  Ukraine is not.  The rest of the world "supports" Ukraine without really getting involved due to fear for yet another world war.  I'm at the point of resigning myself to whatever happens because I can't really change anything....but my heart is with Ukraine.  And I think my formerly Russian son-in-law feels that way, too.  

I like the Ukrainian heart.  They are all focused on one thing, while we continue with political division.  Lead us, our Ukrainian neighbors.  We need more help than you do!  

Growing In and Out of Tricky Situations

 I would have entitled this post as Things People Don't Know About Me, but it seemed pretty conceited and otherwise self-centered.  Still, when one gets to my age, one begins to look back at one's life to see what was done well, what was inherited, and what could have been done better.  (Is it bad to refer to oneself in the third person in a personal blog?  Blah!)

Try as I might, I can't really categorize my life events that way. so I'm just going to list them, with commentary, and hope they are of interest to someone, somewhere.  Maybe my grandkids someday when I'm gone?  

1.  I was born with missing permanent teeth...like four of them.  I had two primary molars that had no replacements, one incisor, and one wisdom tooth that didn't exist.  (TWO other wisdom teeth sprouted sideways under the gum line [impacted].  Crazy!)  The molars that nature expected to last 6-8 years held on well past their lifespan because there were no permanent teeth coming in to push them out.  Over time, they broke and were pulled.  One was replaced by a permanent bridge.  The other is still just a gap.  The primary incisor got pushed out when the permanent canine tooth next to it grew in over it.  (Just call me Fang!)   After the incisor came out with nothing to replace it, there was a gap, but it didn't look that bad.  I was a kid, so I didn't worry about it.  I had one impacted wisdom tooth removed.  The other is still in my jaw, sideways, not giving me any trouble.

When I was a teenager, my mother asked me if I wanted braces.  I said I didn't.  I had no idea then how my mouth would be now.  Wish I had that decision to make all over again!!

2.  I was born a brunette.  But I also had freckles...lots of them...and since I spent every waking hour outside, they were quite visible, and I hated them.  People would comment on my freckles.  I shuddered every time that happened.  My mother told me, over and over again, that the freckles would fade as I got older.  I didn't believe her.  Then, almost unnoticed over years, my freckles were gone.  I don't miss them at all, but I always wondered how my mother would know that they would disappear.  I do know a number of people who have lots of freckles that last well into old age....

The reason I mention that I was a brunette with freckles is that everything I read as a young adult mentioned skin cancer risks for "blonde-headed, blue-eyed people" with "fair skin".  I wasn't blonde, and what the dickens is fair skin?  I had no clue.  My seriously uninformed brain allowed me to be a semi-sun-worshipper.  I was a burn and peel person...not a tan person.  (That should have been my first clue!)  As a result, I've had two skin cancers removed from my face:  a basal cell carcinoma on the end of my nose (1980s), and a squamous cell carcinoma on the bridge of my nose near my eye (early 2000s).  I've learned to cope with my marred beauty.  

3.  As a child, I suffered from serious headaches for as far back as I can remember.  We called them migraines, although I never had a medical diagnosis.  They were severe, complete with sensitivity to light and occasional nausea.  The only thing I could think to do was sleep.  Sometimes it helped; sometimes it didn't.  I learned to be really careful about my head.  Any little bump or tension in my neck would bring one on.  Sometimes, I actually woke up with a headache; sometimes they lasted for more than one day.  My dear mother threw every kind of OTC painkillers she could at me to see if they helped.  She took me to eye doctors, etc.  Not much helped.  (When Excedrin finally came out, it helped.  I would get cold and shake from the caffeine in it just before the headache went away.  Not every time, but often.)  I also learned to take something for pain at the FIRST sign of a headache.  Wait too long, and nothing worked.

I went through this for many, many years...and then...one day...I noticed that I wasn't having headaches anymore.  (I was in my late 20s.)  To this day, the ONLY headache I've had since then was with a ruptured aneurysm in my brain...and that one only lasted for a couple of weeks post-surgery.  I apparently outgrew my migraines...and am so very thankful to have left them behind!  (I actually Googled if it was possible to outgrow headaches and found that it is.  Hallelujah!)

4.  Along about mid-1980s, I got a nasty sinus infection.  I doctored for it, given antibiotics, etc., with a one-horse-town neurotic doctor who treated female patients totally different than males.  (Don't get me started!)  The doc finally ordered me to go to a hospital 35 miles away for a CT scan of my head.  The appointment was made for earlier in the day of my grandfather's funeral visitation.  I was not happy.  When the results came back, the doc said, "You are much sicker than I gave you credit for."  Every single one of my sinuses was full.  Painfully full.  I was given even more rounds of antibiotics that didn't work.  In the long run, my sinusitis became chronic.  Nothing short of surgery would really help, and I had no intention of having that, especially since I had a number of family members who'd gone the surgery route more than once, without permanent relief.  

In the many years since then, I have had several other CT scans of my head for seemingly unrelated reasons (and my ruptured aneurysm).  At one point, I asked a technician if there was anything he was permitted to tell me.  He said, "Yes.  All of your sinuses are full."  Well, durn it!  I could have told him that!  After the CT scan(s) for my brain bleed, the ICU nurse came into my room with a bag of fluids to say, "You have a sinus infection.  We are adding antibiotics to your IV."  

Over the years, I also had TWO tubes put in my right ear, just like the children with frequent ear infections.  The tubes only last a year or two.  When the first one came out, another was put in...but the second one failed.  It was still in place but I still couldn't hear.  Yeah...to this day, I still don't hear well out of that ear, and I still have major sinus problems!

5.  I can't smell anything.  I attribute my olfactory failure to my sinus condition.  It's both a curse and a blessing.  The good news is that I can't smell spoiled things in my refrigerator.  The bad news is that I can't smell spoiled things in my refrigerator--or smoke, or gas leaks, or anything else that could kill me.  Occasionally, the smell of garlic will work its way into my nose, and hand sanitizer also, but I am otherwise Smelling Impaired.  I've been invited to a number of sales parties for scented candles.  There is no point for me.

6.  Everyone--both male and female--are vain about their hair.  (Read the short story, The Gift of the Magi, by O'Henry.)  I inherited my father's curly hair.  My mother loved it and kept it short when I was too young to complain, so she could enjoy my ringlets....but in the 50s, when everyone wore pony tails, I wanted a pony tail, so I tried to grow my hair longer.  It was only then that I realized that my hair is VERY fine.  It wouldn't stay constrained in a rubber band for long.  Later, in the 60s, when everyone was wearing long, straight hippie hair, I couldn't manage it.  My hair was curly.  So much for that look!  It was then that I also realized, not only was my hair curly and fine, it was also thin.  If I parted my hair in the middle, as was the trend, a whole lot of scalp showed.  And it never got better.  My hair has been thin, and getting thinner, most of my adult life.  Ugh!  

I adapted.  Did my best to hide bald spots with my "do", and it somewhat worked for awhile.  Curly hair helps with that.  Then I had the brain bleed that required a craniotomy to fix.  I have a scar that starts just to the right of the midline on my forehead, just below the hairline, then makes an arc up into my skull to the left, and down again just in front of my ear.  That surgery saved my life, so I can't ever complain about it, but it did leave me with a pretty big skull scar that won't grow hair, right in the area in front where my hair is thinnest.

Then, to add insult to injury, a big black mole grew right in the middle of it all.  At that point, I gave up on trying to look pretty and started with a wig.  Then the wig got problematic.  I had to keep what's left of my hair cut short to fit under the wig, which ruined anything close to my old hairstyle.  Then, too, my hair has gotten straighter in old age.  (In comparison, my sister and daughter who were born with straight hair now find themselves with wavy locks.  How does this happen??)  I've learned not to be worried about my appearance in the hopes that people can see my beauty within.  (Yeah, right.)  In truth, nobody really cares about how old people look.  (The irony is that people who look great, like my sister, don't look as old as they are.  People who aren't as attentive to their looks, like me, look a bunch older than they are.  Ugh!)

7.  Once upon a time, while we lived in the small community of Pontiac, IL, Hollywood came to town.  It was revealed that a Hollywood movie was going to be filmed in our community, largely because of the colorful courthouse downtown, etc., and locals were being hired for "extras".  Since one of the actresses in the movie was a 13-year-old, the law required hiring an on-set tutor.  It was at the beginning of the school year, and the young actress was out of Chicago.  As it happened, the production company called my then-husband (principal of the local middle school) to ask for a tutor recommendation.  At the time, I was a certified teacher but only working as a substitute.  My daughter was maybe four and in pre-school.  My husband, of course, recommended me.   Just like that, I was hired.  When I was asked what I would charge, I got brave and said $10/hour.  (At that time, that kind of money looked attractive to me.  Apparently, it was attractive to the producers, too, because they didn't even blink an eye.  I should have asked for more!)

The gig was only for a week or two.  That was the filming schedule for Melissa, my young charge.  We did what we could for the time we had.  I worried that I would be sending her back to class in the Chicago schools behind in her studies, but as luck would have it, Chicago teachers went on strike.  She went home to no school at all for at least a couple of weeks.

Still, for a week or two, I was learning lots about Hollywood movies and rubbing elbows with Hollywood stars, many of whom were just getting started.  Among them:

    Jamie Lee Curtis.  At that time, she was known as the Queen of Screams because she had been in some horror flicks.

    Patrick Swayze.  No one knew him in those days.  It was before Dirty Dancing and all the rest.    

    John Cusack.  This was the very start of his career.  He only had a bit part.

    Ramon Bieri.  He was a very recognizable character actor who had been around for a lot of movies.

    C. Thomas Howell.  He was in E.T. the Extraterrestrial, and other well-known pictures.

    William Windom.  Also a well-known character actor.

    Troy Donohue.  Once a heart-throb; at the time, an aging star.

The movie was titled Grandview, USA.  It wasn't a barnstormer.  In fact, is now barely listed as the actors' accomplishments, but it was important to our community, and it was important to me.  It was my brush with greatness.  

8.  The summer after my then-husband and I were married, I saw an ad in an education flyer about possible summer employment; a Boy Scout Council in central IL, was looking for summer camp employees.  We were both certified teachers an both had been active Scouts as young folk.  He was also a school administrator--so we were hired.  My husband was to be Program Director.  Initially, I was supposed to be the camp's nurse, which would require me to take a First Aid course, but that soon gave way to having me be the Ecology Director.  Both of us were required to go to National Camp School for the Boy Scouts of America, but we had already lost out on convenient opportunities to do so.  We ended up taking five days off from school toward the end of the school year in order to attend NCS in Ohio for the only training week left before the beginning of camp.  (It was a bad move.  The school district ended up docking our pay for that week when they caught on.  Ouch!)

As it turned out, it was okay for Cub Scout troops to have Den Mothers, but women had never been employed as summer camp directors; and certainly none had ever attended National Camp School !  The upshot was that I was NOT welcome to attend camp.  The national Scout executives claimed that the camp didn't have facilities for women, and thusly informed the state executive that had hired me.  The state executive pushed back, telling them that the world was changing, and that I couldn't really be kept out, legally.  (This was the summer of 1978, for Pete's sake!)  Honestly, I wasn't trying to strike a blow for women.  I just wanted us to have summer jobs to help make ends meet.  And that is how I came to be the first woman in the United States to attend National Camp School for the Boy Scouts of America.  Woo hoo!

I've written about the experience before in past posts.  Suffice it to say that the only accommodation I saw in deference to my gender was that one of the patrols of young men at mealtime in the NCS dining hall were not permitted to use "Eat a beaver; save a bush!" as their motto.  

So much for Woman Power....