Tonight I was writing a check in preparation of the Pizza Man driver bringing our dinner. I filled out the date 2 August 1966. Well I didn't actually complete the 1966 but I thought it. On this date in that year, we were 8 days away from meeting our first child.
There have been many milestones in her life (which seems like a short one to me, but may seem long to her). She was the child that the unusual happened to at regular and varied intervals in her life. Condomalachia Patella which if I did not spell correctly I apologize. I could never say it either. It amounted to a wandering knee cap which caused odd sensations and a week knee. This was in her teens. This was followed by problems with her thyroid. She seriously broke her leg (not in sports) just walking down a hill. Soon after that, she discovered she had been exposed to Tuberculosis by the grandfather of the family where she had been a Nanny. Seizure syndrome has caused years of medication to keep her brain from bouncing neurons that trigger the seizures.
Hoping to start a family, she and her husband were told she had ovarian cancer. She is a survivor. God was good. The cancer was discovered as stage 1 or pre-cancerous. She is more than 6 years past her chemo treatments and no sign of cancer. In recent years she developed Afib, simply said a problem with irregular heart beat. An ablation was performed and within months doctors will know if the procedure was complete and all is well.
While there is much to rejoice; our girl has fears and anxieties that keep her from enjoying the good she has. As a mom who is watching, I feel her fears and sometimes fight against magnifying them in my own mind. She has anger for those things that have disrupted, denied, and in some cases destroyed her quality of life.
As I think of her birthday coming soon, I go over everything as I did that long ago night in the hospital. 10 fingers, 10 toes, two eyes. Check! Beautiful girl, already smiling. Sweet disposition, healthy lungs. As she grew, I kept counting. Outgoing personality, lovely smile, funny and a lover of laughing at the ridiculous. Determined. Loving and kind toward her younger brother (who never turned out to be the horse she had asked for). Gracious to her parents. Talented in voice and ability to work with pens and pencils and color as well as florals.
She walks with God. She found Him at a young age and has persisted in following even when she was angriest with Him. She has followed the paths He has set for her. She is married to a kind and loving man who suffers for her right now as she struggles to understand yet another health issue. I watch and admire him. In my own fears I am sometimes sharp or impatient with her. He doesn't seem to be and always gives that extra to help her through.
I am glad to be able to say one more year "Happy Birthday, Helen"! I can't make things go away or even be easier to bear but I can tell you I am glad you are here. Love, Mom
A basket of gloves for the family. Notification of new blogs obtained when you sign up at the right.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Saturday, May 23, 2015
And Then . . . I Was Old
Got up early yesterday. Vacuumed, tidied the kitchen, mowed the lawn. I made dinner for Dave who is suffering from L4 and 5 lumbar indignities. I picked Helen up from work. Together Helen and I went to a prison to share in a Friday Night Worship Service known as "Revival". The campus is large and requires a quarter mile walk to and from the building where the service is held.
The service was energizing and uplifting. Approximately 250 men in attendance. We chatted as we walked back to get our ID's and return to our cars. I drove Helen to her home. I pulled into our driveway and entered home.
Dave and I exchanged stories of how our evening went. I helped put the house in order for night time. I closed windows, lowered blinds, locked doors and set the alarm. Jamas, teeth brushed, pills taken. Read a little of my electronic book. Fell sound asleep after only a page or two.
Morning came. And, then . . I was very old. Joints creak, eyelids are heavy, there are things to be done. Perhaps they can wait until tomorrow?
The service was energizing and uplifting. Approximately 250 men in attendance. We chatted as we walked back to get our ID's and return to our cars. I drove Helen to her home. I pulled into our driveway and entered home.
Dave and I exchanged stories of how our evening went. I helped put the house in order for night time. I closed windows, lowered blinds, locked doors and set the alarm. Jamas, teeth brushed, pills taken. Read a little of my electronic book. Fell sound asleep after only a page or two.
Morning came. And, then . . I was very old. Joints creak, eyelids are heavy, there are things to be done. Perhaps they can wait until tomorrow?
Friday, May 22, 2015
You See . . . It Was Memorial Day.
When I was very young, my family would pack into an automobile and travel to River Falls WI or to Medford MN. It was a long trip for us, 5 siblings, 2 parents, and picnic baskets and blankets and dishes also shovels and rakes. I only remember a few years when Dad was the driver. Often the trips were taken with Uncle Jim and Aunt Augusta or Uncle Doug and Aunt Millie. Sometimes, Auntie Evalyn rode with us to River Falls. It was a full car. There were no seat belts, and people "stacked" to get everyone in. If the weather was cold we were all very warm. If the weather was hot, we rolled down all the windows and were buffeted by the wind and still very hot.
There was no bickering. It wasn't allowed. There was some poking, pinching, tickling and squirming, but not much because that might lead to bickering and that was not allowed. I know I often slept most of the way in the safest place there could be -- on my mother's lap.
Once we were at the destination, we were terribly grateful to pile out of the car. Those at the bottom of the stacks took longer to stand up and walk because their legs were asleep. There was much giggling as wobbly limbs tried to unfold and come back to life. The men, Dad, Uncle, and my brother would unload the car where the ladies, Mom, Aunt and eldest sister, Dorothy directed.
The women put on hats for shade and began pulling weeds, raking away winter dried grass and leaves. They moved from spot to spot. There was some tsking over the condition of the place and a few tears shed here and there. The younger kids were allowed to move pretty freely in play being warned to "watch where you put your feet". The older kids were busy spreading blankets, laying out the dishes and taking the jars we brought along to the pump to get water.
The men chatted quietly in the shade until the women were done. Then the men walked carefully along looking for "repair work" needed. The shovels were put to use digging up some sod here and there, maybe straightening a stone. Sometimes it was actually necessary to level the ground and replace a stone that had turned over. In that case a couple of the more muscled women would pitch in and help. The baskets of food had been in the trunk of the car, but the precious baskets of flowers were on someone's lap for the whole trip. Now they were brought from where they had been staying fresh in the shade. Plants were carefully divided, spread evenly around and water was brought in pails from the pump.
We all came together and washed up. I was always careful to wash really good at the pump to avoid Mom, any of my sisters or one of my aunts giving me a spit bath. If you've never had one you don't know what you missed and that's a good thing. One of those ladies with eyesight of an eagle would spot something I missed and grab a handkerchief from a pocket, spit on it and commence scrubbing. I would have struggled, but the first move on their part was to grab me by my chin and hang on for dear life. There was no escape.
The picnic was festive. We enjoyed the view, ate chicken or sandwiches, had salads and even some early berries, and dessert. There was always much to choose from in the dessert baskets. Cake, pie, cookies, homemade doughnuts. Oh, I wish I hadn't remembered the doughnuts. I want one now!
After lunch, the conversations began. It was good to just let them forget you were present by being quiet and still so they would keep talking. Remember when Amelia thought no one was looking and would hike her skirts to straighten a stocking because Ernest was where he could see? Chuckles all round. Where is her son now? I heard he was in Korea. Pause. Egie (pronounced Eeejee) . . . at the name, alone, everyone would laugh. Right over there is where Egie thought he saw the headless horseman and it was Gus cutting through here on his way home. Remember when he took his date to the drug store and bought himself a malt? He told her it was pretty good and she should buy herself one too. Lots of laughter. How about the Buskovik boys? Did they both die in the war? Yes. One left a widow and some kids, don't remember how many. Right over that hill is where I was riding my bike and the handlebars came off and I went ass over teakettle. There's a bluff not too far from here where Ted almost went over the edge one winter sledding. I couldn't save the sled but I caught him by the seat of his pants just before he went over. Smiles, twinkles, remember when we put him in the manure spreader and sent him from the hayloft out over the wires. It went too far and dropped him right in the manure pile. Laughter until Dad had to wipe tears from his eyes; tears of laughter followed by real tears because he missed Ted so.
Soon the reminiscing was over and the men would pick up their shovels and walk through the area policing any spaces that had not been tended. The ladies would weed those spots that were forgotten. Occasionally, they would stand close together, arms entwined and mourn someone's child. Usually one of the women would go back and dig up a plant or two from each spot they had just planted them and bring them here to carefully replant and re-water.
You see, it was Memorial Day. Families took care of the graves of loved ones and loved ones that belonged to someone else who had also passed this life or moved away. Much time and thought went into preparation for the day. The cemetery came to beautiful life as gravesites were cleaned, flowers were planted, shrubs were pruned back, and memories were relived. There were tears, there was laughter, there was food, and love.
There was usually enough food to gather at the blankets one more time for more to eat and more to remember. By this time, the men were having a game of "catch" and the older girls were playing tag or picking wildflowers along the edge of the cemetery. I would rest my head in Mom's lap and listen to the ladies remembering their mothers and grandmothers and school friends. Soon the fresh air and exercise and soft voices would lull me to sleep.
I didn't understand the special grace they gave to those who had died in WWI or the more recent WWII. Korea was an ominous name from far away. Communism was a new word in my vocabulary and was a thought I pushed far away out of mind-sight. It frightened me. To think that men and boys would actually have to die to keep it at bay was something my young mind couldn't comprehend.
When I woke, there were those times when we could afford the little U.S. flags and I was allowed to put one at each designated grave for the man who helped to keep our country safe. When the last flag was set, we would look over our little family plot and there would be silence. Someone would say, "It's been a nice day. Everything looks so nice." While the others were picking up the blankets and tools and dishes, I would wander the graves taking in all the names of the grandparents I had never met, great aunts and uncles that were only names. I would wonder about those who had earned a little flag. Back in the crowded car we would head for home. Someone would usually hand me a little paper poppy they had gotten for donating. I would snuggle close to Mom and play with my flower.
How many more "conflicts" (such a nice euphemism for war) have come and gone since then? How many more men have given their lives and their health and their sanity to protect a country that allows us to live as we do? Whether you believe in war or not, it is a reality, it has happened, is happening. Those men and now, women too, who believe they are doing what they must deserve our gratitude. Dave, my Dave, served in Viet Nam. He came back whole but not the same. He came back healthy, healthy until the things of war affected his current health. He is alive and we are together. We know someone who will never leave prison because he left his sanity in the tunnels of Viet Nam. His flashbacks cause him to be unsafe around others. We know of those, some close friends, who did not come back. We love someone dearly who was part of recovery for Black Hawk Down and during the Gulf War of Desert Storm. He has mind pictures none of us would want to see.
It is Memorial Day. Remember those who served, serve, or gave all. Remember family and that you are who you are because you are part of that family. Remember you live in a country where you may think stupidity reigns but in reality is still better than any other country you could try. Celebrate those who went before and honor the flag that flies proudly because of them.
There was no bickering. It wasn't allowed. There was some poking, pinching, tickling and squirming, but not much because that might lead to bickering and that was not allowed. I know I often slept most of the way in the safest place there could be -- on my mother's lap.
Once we were at the destination, we were terribly grateful to pile out of the car. Those at the bottom of the stacks took longer to stand up and walk because their legs were asleep. There was much giggling as wobbly limbs tried to unfold and come back to life. The men, Dad, Uncle, and my brother would unload the car where the ladies, Mom, Aunt and eldest sister, Dorothy directed.
The women put on hats for shade and began pulling weeds, raking away winter dried grass and leaves. They moved from spot to spot. There was some tsking over the condition of the place and a few tears shed here and there. The younger kids were allowed to move pretty freely in play being warned to "watch where you put your feet". The older kids were busy spreading blankets, laying out the dishes and taking the jars we brought along to the pump to get water.
The men chatted quietly in the shade until the women were done. Then the men walked carefully along looking for "repair work" needed. The shovels were put to use digging up some sod here and there, maybe straightening a stone. Sometimes it was actually necessary to level the ground and replace a stone that had turned over. In that case a couple of the more muscled women would pitch in and help. The baskets of food had been in the trunk of the car, but the precious baskets of flowers were on someone's lap for the whole trip. Now they were brought from where they had been staying fresh in the shade. Plants were carefully divided, spread evenly around and water was brought in pails from the pump.
We all came together and washed up. I was always careful to wash really good at the pump to avoid Mom, any of my sisters or one of my aunts giving me a spit bath. If you've never had one you don't know what you missed and that's a good thing. One of those ladies with eyesight of an eagle would spot something I missed and grab a handkerchief from a pocket, spit on it and commence scrubbing. I would have struggled, but the first move on their part was to grab me by my chin and hang on for dear life. There was no escape.
The picnic was festive. We enjoyed the view, ate chicken or sandwiches, had salads and even some early berries, and dessert. There was always much to choose from in the dessert baskets. Cake, pie, cookies, homemade doughnuts. Oh, I wish I hadn't remembered the doughnuts. I want one now!
After lunch, the conversations began. It was good to just let them forget you were present by being quiet and still so they would keep talking. Remember when Amelia thought no one was looking and would hike her skirts to straighten a stocking because Ernest was where he could see? Chuckles all round. Where is her son now? I heard he was in Korea. Pause. Egie (pronounced Eeejee) . . . at the name, alone, everyone would laugh. Right over there is where Egie thought he saw the headless horseman and it was Gus cutting through here on his way home. Remember when he took his date to the drug store and bought himself a malt? He told her it was pretty good and she should buy herself one too. Lots of laughter. How about the Buskovik boys? Did they both die in the war? Yes. One left a widow and some kids, don't remember how many. Right over that hill is where I was riding my bike and the handlebars came off and I went ass over teakettle. There's a bluff not too far from here where Ted almost went over the edge one winter sledding. I couldn't save the sled but I caught him by the seat of his pants just before he went over. Smiles, twinkles, remember when we put him in the manure spreader and sent him from the hayloft out over the wires. It went too far and dropped him right in the manure pile. Laughter until Dad had to wipe tears from his eyes; tears of laughter followed by real tears because he missed Ted so.
Soon the reminiscing was over and the men would pick up their shovels and walk through the area policing any spaces that had not been tended. The ladies would weed those spots that were forgotten. Occasionally, they would stand close together, arms entwined and mourn someone's child. Usually one of the women would go back and dig up a plant or two from each spot they had just planted them and bring them here to carefully replant and re-water.
You see, it was Memorial Day. Families took care of the graves of loved ones and loved ones that belonged to someone else who had also passed this life or moved away. Much time and thought went into preparation for the day. The cemetery came to beautiful life as gravesites were cleaned, flowers were planted, shrubs were pruned back, and memories were relived. There were tears, there was laughter, there was food, and love.
There was usually enough food to gather at the blankets one more time for more to eat and more to remember. By this time, the men were having a game of "catch" and the older girls were playing tag or picking wildflowers along the edge of the cemetery. I would rest my head in Mom's lap and listen to the ladies remembering their mothers and grandmothers and school friends. Soon the fresh air and exercise and soft voices would lull me to sleep.
I didn't understand the special grace they gave to those who had died in WWI or the more recent WWII. Korea was an ominous name from far away. Communism was a new word in my vocabulary and was a thought I pushed far away out of mind-sight. It frightened me. To think that men and boys would actually have to die to keep it at bay was something my young mind couldn't comprehend.
When I woke, there were those times when we could afford the little U.S. flags and I was allowed to put one at each designated grave for the man who helped to keep our country safe. When the last flag was set, we would look over our little family plot and there would be silence. Someone would say, "It's been a nice day. Everything looks so nice." While the others were picking up the blankets and tools and dishes, I would wander the graves taking in all the names of the grandparents I had never met, great aunts and uncles that were only names. I would wonder about those who had earned a little flag. Back in the crowded car we would head for home. Someone would usually hand me a little paper poppy they had gotten for donating. I would snuggle close to Mom and play with my flower.
How many more "conflicts" (such a nice euphemism for war) have come and gone since then? How many more men have given their lives and their health and their sanity to protect a country that allows us to live as we do? Whether you believe in war or not, it is a reality, it has happened, is happening. Those men and now, women too, who believe they are doing what they must deserve our gratitude. Dave, my Dave, served in Viet Nam. He came back whole but not the same. He came back healthy, healthy until the things of war affected his current health. He is alive and we are together. We know someone who will never leave prison because he left his sanity in the tunnels of Viet Nam. His flashbacks cause him to be unsafe around others. We know of those, some close friends, who did not come back. We love someone dearly who was part of recovery for Black Hawk Down and during the Gulf War of Desert Storm. He has mind pictures none of us would want to see.
It is Memorial Day. Remember those who served, serve, or gave all. Remember family and that you are who you are because you are part of that family. Remember you live in a country where you may think stupidity reigns but in reality is still better than any other country you could try. Celebrate those who went before and honor the flag that flies proudly because of them.
Friday, May 8, 2015
I Thought I Just Finished That!!!
Reach! Higher! Bend and stretch; further! Side step, two step, ball, slide, ball! Plea, en pointe, glissade, and spin! Heft and lift and shove and pull. What would you guess; Pilates, Yoga, Ballet? Nope!
Never ending, always there, for-the-love-of-Mike, housework!!!!
I remember a conversation, half in jest, but with some serious tone to it between Mom and Dad. He was pre-retirement so maybe 60-63. She being four years younger was 56-59. Don't think I am discounting the hard life they both shared nor the good things Dad did. Mom never worked outside the home and even in the modern era of the late 50's when this conversation took place housework was manual labor with a capital M and L. Anyway, they were discussing the fact that it would be nice to return to farm living. We siblings were listening and enjoying the conversation. Dad finally said he would maybe look into a small farm near where we lived for retirement. I think it was my sister, Dot, who dared to ask how he thought he could handle the heavy work. His reply? "Well, Mom's still pretty fit, she could do it!" I think everyone but Mom laughed.
Today, we have things to make housework easy. Easy by comparison to laundry by hand or with a wringer washer (look it up if you don't remember it), dryers vs. clotheslines, vacuums vs. brooms, Swifter Mops vs. bucket and string mop. You get the picture. I don't know about you, but Mary Poppins never shows up here so the sheets and blankets pop off the bead and head for the laundry. Nor, I'll tell ya true, do clean ones fly from nowhere to land snug and smooth on the bed. That chore is still done with grunt work. It is a ponder for me that the shortest person in the family with the shortest wing span is the only one who can fold just-washed King-sized sheets without dragging them on the floor!
While the vacuum does a lovely job on carpets and gets the cobwebs and Dave vacuums for special occasions, it does not do well on bare floors except for a quick fix. I have a little kitchen vac that is lovely for the messes I make on the floor while cooking or baking and if it breaks I'll sacrifice shampoo to replace the kitchen vac. A clean kitchen floor is still really only achieved by a broom or dust-mop first and then a good old fashioned sponge mop next. Even better for real clean is if one can still at least quarterly get down on hands and knees with a good scrub brush for the tight places.
Dusting sounds easy and there are cute little handle things with changeable fluffy items that get the dust. Really? There are places where only a conscientious dance macabre can clean the dust and leave surfaces shining. Reach, balance, en pointe, bend. Nothing in the modern idea of dusting leaves everything clean, shining, and fresh like a rag with furniture polish. Knick-knacks and bric-a-brac still have to be hand washed to bring back the brightness.
Rugs are now called carpets and don't have to be hung on a line and beaten with what looks like something Jack would have found at the top of the beanstalk to whip the giant's eggs (ostrich sized, of course). But scatter rugs suck into a vacuum and, by consequence, must be shaken vigorously. I still hang mine on a deck railing to air in the sunshine a bit.
Loading the dishwasher can be hard on the back. A pile of plates going into the cupboard can be heavy (clean and jerk 101). Some of my heaviest cooking utensils are in the bottom of the cupboards because that's where they fit. (Use your knees, not your back.) Much of housework takes flexibility in arms and shoulders. If something is hurting, the chore is harder.
I'm not whining nor complaining. I'm just saying don't sell short the person that keeps the house tidy and the home looking like a home. In many homes today, that is not necessarily Mom. Dad's are sometimes the stay-at-home grunt. (Some are not appreciated for folding the laundry because it's not the same way the other would do it.) Some of our younger set have learned to share the duties -- most seem to think that is only for housework and the sharing is not equal concerning the yard work. If both are working away from home, it should all be shared.
I approve of Dad spending more time with his kids. Both parent and child benefits. I like watching men interact with their kids in ways the men never connected when I was young. Dave would take his turns with our kids, did his share of feeding and diaper changing. He put a lot of energy in trying to
be a good Dad. Recently I've noticed more and more that Dad is the one with a baby (in arms, in tummy or back pack) and a toddler or two and the diaper bag while Mom strolls along looking unconcerned and unruffled like Dads used to look. What? She can't even carry the diaper bag? More and more it is not Mom who leaves the Sunday Service, but Dad, with a wiggly tot. Seems like the stress hasn't been equaled out but completely shifted to the other sex.
God gave us work to do even before the fall. He planned that we would be busy and profit from our labor. He arranged that both sexes had abilities and strengths for certain things and that we could be a help to each other in the hard stretches. He never planned that we should squabble over who's efforts gain more. Teamwork was a plan. Delight in accomplishment after a task well done is a reward. My friend Patrick wrote a book on work and attitude toward work that pointed out God's desire for us to enjoy our work. Wake in the morning and do what it takes plus more to provide for need, go to sleep and sleep from being tired and satisfied with the day.
Do I ever have control of my attitude toward my work? Once in a while, I get it right. Do I ever sin in my frustration because I am the only one in a group who is still working while the rest are sitting by? Oh, my stars! Yes.
Why this post you may be wondering? Because I needed to put down some words to stop feeling hard-used because housework is never, I repeat, never finished. Empty the dishwasher and fill it right back up. Make the bed and delight in the smooth covers and the "foo-foo pillows" on it; one night's tossing and turning will cause it to look slightly "used" until the next time fresh sheets are put on. Laundry. I no longer follow Mom's strict "wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Clean on Wednesday, Bake on Thursday, Tidy on Friday for possible guests on Saturday, Entertain on Saturday, and Church on Sunday". However, I rarely finish laundry without having something pulled off a hanger or out of a folded pile before the last piece of laundry is put away. Fig leaves might have been the answer -- pick a new one every morning, the old ones would decay.
Never ending, always there, for-the-love-of-Mike, housework!!!!
I remember a conversation, half in jest, but with some serious tone to it between Mom and Dad. He was pre-retirement so maybe 60-63. She being four years younger was 56-59. Don't think I am discounting the hard life they both shared nor the good things Dad did. Mom never worked outside the home and even in the modern era of the late 50's when this conversation took place housework was manual labor with a capital M and L. Anyway, they were discussing the fact that it would be nice to return to farm living. We siblings were listening and enjoying the conversation. Dad finally said he would maybe look into a small farm near where we lived for retirement. I think it was my sister, Dot, who dared to ask how he thought he could handle the heavy work. His reply? "Well, Mom's still pretty fit, she could do it!" I think everyone but Mom laughed.
Today, we have things to make housework easy. Easy by comparison to laundry by hand or with a wringer washer (look it up if you don't remember it), dryers vs. clotheslines, vacuums vs. brooms, Swifter Mops vs. bucket and string mop. You get the picture. I don't know about you, but Mary Poppins never shows up here so the sheets and blankets pop off the bead and head for the laundry. Nor, I'll tell ya true, do clean ones fly from nowhere to land snug and smooth on the bed. That chore is still done with grunt work. It is a ponder for me that the shortest person in the family with the shortest wing span is the only one who can fold just-washed King-sized sheets without dragging them on the floor!
While the vacuum does a lovely job on carpets and gets the cobwebs and Dave vacuums for special occasions, it does not do well on bare floors except for a quick fix. I have a little kitchen vac that is lovely for the messes I make on the floor while cooking or baking and if it breaks I'll sacrifice shampoo to replace the kitchen vac. A clean kitchen floor is still really only achieved by a broom or dust-mop first and then a good old fashioned sponge mop next. Even better for real clean is if one can still at least quarterly get down on hands and knees with a good scrub brush for the tight places.
Dusting sounds easy and there are cute little handle things with changeable fluffy items that get the dust. Really? There are places where only a conscientious dance macabre can clean the dust and leave surfaces shining. Reach, balance, en pointe, bend. Nothing in the modern idea of dusting leaves everything clean, shining, and fresh like a rag with furniture polish. Knick-knacks and bric-a-brac still have to be hand washed to bring back the brightness.
Rugs are now called carpets and don't have to be hung on a line and beaten with what looks like something Jack would have found at the top of the beanstalk to whip the giant's eggs (ostrich sized, of course). But scatter rugs suck into a vacuum and, by consequence, must be shaken vigorously. I still hang mine on a deck railing to air in the sunshine a bit.
Loading the dishwasher can be hard on the back. A pile of plates going into the cupboard can be heavy (clean and jerk 101). Some of my heaviest cooking utensils are in the bottom of the cupboards because that's where they fit. (Use your knees, not your back.) Much of housework takes flexibility in arms and shoulders. If something is hurting, the chore is harder.
I'm not whining nor complaining. I'm just saying don't sell short the person that keeps the house tidy and the home looking like a home. In many homes today, that is not necessarily Mom. Dad's are sometimes the stay-at-home grunt. (Some are not appreciated for folding the laundry because it's not the same way the other would do it.) Some of our younger set have learned to share the duties -- most seem to think that is only for housework and the sharing is not equal concerning the yard work. If both are working away from home, it should all be shared.
I approve of Dad spending more time with his kids. Both parent and child benefits. I like watching men interact with their kids in ways the men never connected when I was young. Dave would take his turns with our kids, did his share of feeding and diaper changing. He put a lot of energy in trying to
be a good Dad. Recently I've noticed more and more that Dad is the one with a baby (in arms, in tummy or back pack) and a toddler or two and the diaper bag while Mom strolls along looking unconcerned and unruffled like Dads used to look. What? She can't even carry the diaper bag? More and more it is not Mom who leaves the Sunday Service, but Dad, with a wiggly tot. Seems like the stress hasn't been equaled out but completely shifted to the other sex.
God gave us work to do even before the fall. He planned that we would be busy and profit from our labor. He arranged that both sexes had abilities and strengths for certain things and that we could be a help to each other in the hard stretches. He never planned that we should squabble over who's efforts gain more. Teamwork was a plan. Delight in accomplishment after a task well done is a reward. My friend Patrick wrote a book on work and attitude toward work that pointed out God's desire for us to enjoy our work. Wake in the morning and do what it takes plus more to provide for need, go to sleep and sleep from being tired and satisfied with the day.
Do I ever have control of my attitude toward my work? Once in a while, I get it right. Do I ever sin in my frustration because I am the only one in a group who is still working while the rest are sitting by? Oh, my stars! Yes.
Why this post you may be wondering? Because I needed to put down some words to stop feeling hard-used because housework is never, I repeat, never finished. Empty the dishwasher and fill it right back up. Make the bed and delight in the smooth covers and the "foo-foo pillows" on it; one night's tossing and turning will cause it to look slightly "used" until the next time fresh sheets are put on. Laundry. I no longer follow Mom's strict "wash on Monday, Iron on Tuesday, Clean on Wednesday, Bake on Thursday, Tidy on Friday for possible guests on Saturday, Entertain on Saturday, and Church on Sunday". However, I rarely finish laundry without having something pulled off a hanger or out of a folded pile before the last piece of laundry is put away. Fig leaves might have been the answer -- pick a new one every morning, the old ones would decay.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Oh The Things We See, And Say, And Do!
So, myopia isn't just mis-seeing things, even though it pertains to the ocular. I think there is myopia in the brain as well. All the information is there, the brain just doesn't "see" it correctly.
One of my best examples is a tank farm in Northeast Minneapolis. I grew up not far from there and only ever saw it from County Road C. Oh, for those of you who don't know what a tank farm is; it is a collection of tanks housing oil.
Dave and I had been married at least 6 or 7 years when I looked at the same tank farm from 35W. Naively, I said, "Hey, there are 2 tank farms in the same area!" Dave looked at me to see if I was kidding. I was not. I could not connect in my brain that we were seeing the same site from a different angle. OK, that is way cool. I now knew through Dave's laughing response I had sounded incredibly unsmart!
Keep in mind I am nearing the experienced and learned age of 73. This winter we happened to take the road that runs on the south side of the same tank farm. Before I could recall the humor that went with the former puzzlement, I blurted out, "There's ANOTHER tank farm!" It's too painful to relate here the look of utter shock and the laughter that followed. He purposely took me on the road that runs to the west of the place so I wouldn't have to have a future revelation.
Now that would be the end of it if there weren't all the wounded animals I have nearly had a heart attack over. While driving by myself one day, I saw this ghastly, maimed animal rolling and creeping across the road ahead of me. I couldn't slam on the brakes because of traffic behind me and there wasn't much room to maneuver nor to avoid hitting this pitiful creature. My heart was beating wildly and I know my eyes were bulging from my face like a cartoon character. It slithered and prediction indicated it would be under my left wheels in no time. All that adrenalin and extreme oxygen pumping through my system was over a piece of rug that was blowing and rolling on the road. There have been countless plastic bags that were perceived geese, ducks, birds, and puppies impaled on roadside fences.
I have ducked to avoid being attacked by deadly leaves thinking they were bugs. I nearly killed myself when I was standing at the top of a stairwell when my senses picked up the sound and vibration of the June Bug that was on my hip just under my right elbow. I screeched, started batting at my side while rapidly approaching the top stair of the well. Then, to my embarrassment discovered I was trying to kill the pager I was wearing. Yeah. I left the office with hoots of laughter ringing in my ears.
This morning I headed for the kitchen for my first cup of coffee. Tentatively I asked Dave to come look at something. I was trying to not sound as panicky as I felt. He came to my side and I pointed at the Dragonfly resting in the sun on our carpet. Dave looked at it and then picked it up. It was a piece of mulch the dog had brought in on her still winter-long coat. I said, "It did look like a Dragonfly, didn't it?" He agreed, then turned it end up and said, "And, now it looks like a tiny tree."
Don't get me started on the dyslexic turn I give words when I am reading fast. I stop a page or two later and think to myself, "That just did not make sense". Of course it didn't; it wasn't the word I had inserted into the text. Also, we will leave for another blog the strange looks I have received while wholeheartedly singing the words to a hymn in church all the while belting out strange things in my own personal mis-speak. Would you believe I have actually suffered my daughter and daughter-in-law pulling a hymnal from my hands and telling me to stop? Would you just believe that?
One of my best examples is a tank farm in Northeast Minneapolis. I grew up not far from there and only ever saw it from County Road C. Oh, for those of you who don't know what a tank farm is; it is a collection of tanks housing oil.
Dave and I had been married at least 6 or 7 years when I looked at the same tank farm from 35W. Naively, I said, "Hey, there are 2 tank farms in the same area!" Dave looked at me to see if I was kidding. I was not. I could not connect in my brain that we were seeing the same site from a different angle. OK, that is way cool. I now knew through Dave's laughing response I had sounded incredibly unsmart!
Keep in mind I am nearing the experienced and learned age of 73. This winter we happened to take the road that runs on the south side of the same tank farm. Before I could recall the humor that went with the former puzzlement, I blurted out, "There's ANOTHER tank farm!" It's too painful to relate here the look of utter shock and the laughter that followed. He purposely took me on the road that runs to the west of the place so I wouldn't have to have a future revelation.
Now that would be the end of it if there weren't all the wounded animals I have nearly had a heart attack over. While driving by myself one day, I saw this ghastly, maimed animal rolling and creeping across the road ahead of me. I couldn't slam on the brakes because of traffic behind me and there wasn't much room to maneuver nor to avoid hitting this pitiful creature. My heart was beating wildly and I know my eyes were bulging from my face like a cartoon character. It slithered and prediction indicated it would be under my left wheels in no time. All that adrenalin and extreme oxygen pumping through my system was over a piece of rug that was blowing and rolling on the road. There have been countless plastic bags that were perceived geese, ducks, birds, and puppies impaled on roadside fences.
I have ducked to avoid being attacked by deadly leaves thinking they were bugs. I nearly killed myself when I was standing at the top of a stairwell when my senses picked up the sound and vibration of the June Bug that was on my hip just under my right elbow. I screeched, started batting at my side while rapidly approaching the top stair of the well. Then, to my embarrassment discovered I was trying to kill the pager I was wearing. Yeah. I left the office with hoots of laughter ringing in my ears.
This morning I headed for the kitchen for my first cup of coffee. Tentatively I asked Dave to come look at something. I was trying to not sound as panicky as I felt. He came to my side and I pointed at the Dragonfly resting in the sun on our carpet. Dave looked at it and then picked it up. It was a piece of mulch the dog had brought in on her still winter-long coat. I said, "It did look like a Dragonfly, didn't it?" He agreed, then turned it end up and said, "And, now it looks like a tiny tree."
Don't get me started on the dyslexic turn I give words when I am reading fast. I stop a page or two later and think to myself, "That just did not make sense". Of course it didn't; it wasn't the word I had inserted into the text. Also, we will leave for another blog the strange looks I have received while wholeheartedly singing the words to a hymn in church all the while belting out strange things in my own personal mis-speak. Would you believe I have actually suffered my daughter and daughter-in-law pulling a hymnal from my hands and telling me to stop? Would you just believe that?
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Capricious Weather We Are Having
In the almost 73 years I have spent in Minnesota, there has been lots of weather to marvel. So hot sometimes the brain fries, tempers flare, and murders happen. So cold one cannot even contemplate being angry or harming another because the body is too busy putting all its effort into shivering to generate heat. Of course there are all the in-betweens the extremes that can be pleasant and memorable.
Spring:
As a child I only thought of spring as the nearing end of another school year. I liked the still frosty mornings and walking on ice that crackled sharply in the morning silence. I liked the sun on my back but cool in the air. I liked wearing lighter clothes. I hated the wasps. Schools had windows that opened, no A/C, and no screens. The wasps were everywhere! I liked splashing in snow-melt puddles. I liked the buds. I didn't care about the lengthening days and since we didn't use DST much no one was messing with my body clock twice a year so as the days lengthened, I got used to it. I was terrified of the snakes, frogs, and other slimy creatures that came out to enjoy the warming sun. June Bugs! Oh, how I hated the June Bugs. Still do. Can't abide them (picture a large uncontrolled shiver here). My gardening was inhibited by June Bugs. Since most plants can't be put in until June, it was hard to garden and get all done BEFORE the June Bugs emerged. Nasty things. To end on a pleasant thought, lilacs, lily of the valley, tulips, daffodils, peony blossoms, and wood violets.
Summer:
School was out and that was all that mattered. I was usually not a stay-a-bed as our family had work and things to get done. Mom liked being up early to sit quietly after everyone left for the day with the morning paper crossword puzzle, me, and watching the sun rise over the neighbor's tall cottonwood. She also liked getting things done before the day got too hot. She pulled thick dark-green shades to keep the house cool. Windows were open for a cross breeze (until the breeze, too, became hot). The shades were drawn following the sun. Laundry was out on Monday mornings before the heat, and then left to soak up the scent of sun and breeze until the sun was going down and there was shade to take them in. Not being a heat and sun lover, I followed the shades around the house to stay cool. I mostly played paper dolls or read books on the front porch which faced east after the sun passed there. The only reason I cherished summer was to enjoy not having school.
Autumn:
The very first frosty morning, I would be up, digging for my flannel shirts and cord slacks. I would have them on in spite of Mom's protests. By 10:00 AM, I definitely was dressed too warm and begging to change into something cooler. Mom would be adamant. You chose it; you wear it. I loved the disappearance of bugs, frogs, snakes and other slithery things. I liked sitting with Dad burning the day's garbage at the fire pit (no it wasn't taboo in those days). I loved the drifting leaves with all the bright colors. I loved the frost on the grass. My dad took pictures once of snow falling late August or early September as it settled on the dahlias of the lady next door. I was ecstatic. Mom was not. As I look back, I think autumn and winter made her sad. Oh, yeah, the school year was in full sway. The wasps were even worse than spring because they were slow and lazy. Being lazy didn't stop them from stinging, though.
Winter:
Delightful snow. I played in it, I built snow men and women, I gave my interpretation of ice skating (all the while singing the Skater's Waltz at the top of my lungs.) I would hide in a neighbor's pine trees and watch the snow come down. I lived with the thought that winter meant things slowed down and war couldn't happen in winter. Dad and Mom let me believe that as long as I could. I remember a news report of Korean fighting in the midst of the worst snow storm that season and refused to believe it. The reporter must have been wrong! It was my peace time of year. Even after the excitement of Christmas passing, I didn't mind the cold nor the snow (sometimes way above a little girl's head). If it snowed in April, I was OK with that. I wasn't looking forward to summer as others were.
So yesterday was April 22 and we were treated to some of the wildest snow flurries ever! It would snow hard, the wind would howl, and then the sun would come out. It blew and it blustered and the topic of conversation no matter where you were was the odd weather. I thought about the August snow on the dahlias and laughed. We have had a past few months of weather in the wrong month. November 2014 was cold, unseasonably cold, and it snowed. December gave us a warm spell that caused most of the snow to disappear before Christmas. January warmed up and February was cold. What's up with this? March was warm, unseasonably warm, and April has been like a roller coaster of temperature swings.
It's Minnesota. It becomes a well planned, flexible strategy, game of what to pack away, what to keep handy in case of change, and what to leave out all year because you will need it no matter what the season. This is one of the few areas where one day you can be beaten up with ice crystals hitting you in the face and get a sunburn the next day because the temperature had climbed to Tee and cut-off weather. There is nothing to do but laugh. Gather in groups at church, the store, or local sports area or watering hole and discuss the weather. We Minnesotans are rarely without a conversation topic because there is always the weather!
Spring:
As a child I only thought of spring as the nearing end of another school year. I liked the still frosty mornings and walking on ice that crackled sharply in the morning silence. I liked the sun on my back but cool in the air. I liked wearing lighter clothes. I hated the wasps. Schools had windows that opened, no A/C, and no screens. The wasps were everywhere! I liked splashing in snow-melt puddles. I liked the buds. I didn't care about the lengthening days and since we didn't use DST much no one was messing with my body clock twice a year so as the days lengthened, I got used to it. I was terrified of the snakes, frogs, and other slimy creatures that came out to enjoy the warming sun. June Bugs! Oh, how I hated the June Bugs. Still do. Can't abide them (picture a large uncontrolled shiver here). My gardening was inhibited by June Bugs. Since most plants can't be put in until June, it was hard to garden and get all done BEFORE the June Bugs emerged. Nasty things. To end on a pleasant thought, lilacs, lily of the valley, tulips, daffodils, peony blossoms, and wood violets.
Summer:
School was out and that was all that mattered. I was usually not a stay-a-bed as our family had work and things to get done. Mom liked being up early to sit quietly after everyone left for the day with the morning paper crossword puzzle, me, and watching the sun rise over the neighbor's tall cottonwood. She also liked getting things done before the day got too hot. She pulled thick dark-green shades to keep the house cool. Windows were open for a cross breeze (until the breeze, too, became hot). The shades were drawn following the sun. Laundry was out on Monday mornings before the heat, and then left to soak up the scent of sun and breeze until the sun was going down and there was shade to take them in. Not being a heat and sun lover, I followed the shades around the house to stay cool. I mostly played paper dolls or read books on the front porch which faced east after the sun passed there. The only reason I cherished summer was to enjoy not having school.
Autumn:
The very first frosty morning, I would be up, digging for my flannel shirts and cord slacks. I would have them on in spite of Mom's protests. By 10:00 AM, I definitely was dressed too warm and begging to change into something cooler. Mom would be adamant. You chose it; you wear it. I loved the disappearance of bugs, frogs, snakes and other slithery things. I liked sitting with Dad burning the day's garbage at the fire pit (no it wasn't taboo in those days). I loved the drifting leaves with all the bright colors. I loved the frost on the grass. My dad took pictures once of snow falling late August or early September as it settled on the dahlias of the lady next door. I was ecstatic. Mom was not. As I look back, I think autumn and winter made her sad. Oh, yeah, the school year was in full sway. The wasps were even worse than spring because they were slow and lazy. Being lazy didn't stop them from stinging, though.
Winter:
Delightful snow. I played in it, I built snow men and women, I gave my interpretation of ice skating (all the while singing the Skater's Waltz at the top of my lungs.) I would hide in a neighbor's pine trees and watch the snow come down. I lived with the thought that winter meant things slowed down and war couldn't happen in winter. Dad and Mom let me believe that as long as I could. I remember a news report of Korean fighting in the midst of the worst snow storm that season and refused to believe it. The reporter must have been wrong! It was my peace time of year. Even after the excitement of Christmas passing, I didn't mind the cold nor the snow (sometimes way above a little girl's head). If it snowed in April, I was OK with that. I wasn't looking forward to summer as others were.
So yesterday was April 22 and we were treated to some of the wildest snow flurries ever! It would snow hard, the wind would howl, and then the sun would come out. It blew and it blustered and the topic of conversation no matter where you were was the odd weather. I thought about the August snow on the dahlias and laughed. We have had a past few months of weather in the wrong month. November 2014 was cold, unseasonably cold, and it snowed. December gave us a warm spell that caused most of the snow to disappear before Christmas. January warmed up and February was cold. What's up with this? March was warm, unseasonably warm, and April has been like a roller coaster of temperature swings.
It's Minnesota. It becomes a well planned, flexible strategy, game of what to pack away, what to keep handy in case of change, and what to leave out all year because you will need it no matter what the season. This is one of the few areas where one day you can be beaten up with ice crystals hitting you in the face and get a sunburn the next day because the temperature had climbed to Tee and cut-off weather. There is nothing to do but laugh. Gather in groups at church, the store, or local sports area or watering hole and discuss the weather. We Minnesotans are rarely without a conversation topic because there is always the weather!
Monday, April 20, 2015
Who You Calling Old?
Mostly I don't feel old. Yes I tire more easily and running is not in my vocabulary. I wake feeling and thinking pretty much like I always have. I go to sleep easily when it is time to retire. But there are those startling, somewhat shocking moments when I face reality.
One of those moments is when I have been sitting a while and try to stand up. I stand up immediately; my knees not so immediately. They don't creak or snap often nor do they make grating noises. But something makes them hurt when I want to straighten them and I have to be patient while I get them to be fully straight before I take a step. Of course, the reverse is true when I want to bend them.
My hearing is fine, but my cognitive translation of what I hear is off. If you have recently said something to me and received my wise-old-owl expression, it is because I heard the words but they didn't hang together in a way that makes sense. My loving spouse sees that expression and begins shouting, "Earth to Judy!" Well, at least the planet I'm on can still hear even if we can't string the pearls of wisdom together in the correct order. On his planet, they walk around with a blank expression followed by a smile and a nod which indicates "I heard something, but I'm just not interested enough to ask what you said!" (That is not strictly fair -- sometimes the hard of hearing receive that impatient look with eyes rolled because we have to repeat. We force them to pretend rather than ask and receive that look again.)
Another shock to the system is a look in the mirror. Sometimes I look and I see what I want to see: hair 6, eyes 8, make-up 9 on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being really very good. Sometimes I wonder who that old woman is. I would like to ask her to get out of my mirror; but no reflection at all would be terrifying!
Having been underweight for most of my life and spending my middle years with a good amount of weight, I am shocked now to note I am more than pleasingly plump. Add to that my 5' 4" frame has dwindled to 5' 3.5" and plump doesn't describe it. I have several outfits that I call my "very tall and slender" outfits. When I have them on I feel, elegant bordering on regal, charming, graceful. There are several things that destroy my self-image. One would be a quick glance in the mirror. Another would be when I stick the toe of one foot inside the pant-leg of the other and trip myself. There is always the chance that the odd shaped decorative something on my bosom is just my luncheon spill.
When I last saw my doctor, the nurse informed me I had lost stature. I said, "I could have told you that because much of what I used to be able to reach in my cupboards is now out of reach; and I was the one who put them there several months ago!" She didn't know what to do so she smiled and nodded. Hrumph! If I can't laugh at what's happening to me, what will be the fun of aging? After all it is not like looking forward to 16 and being able to drive, 21 and being able to drink, 55 and your first seniors meal. At 73, you just don't get excited about the color of your upcoming wheel chair, or the people who will write on your hip cast when you fall, or the make and model of your casket. There has to be laughter and fun and love.
Another odd thing about the doctor visit was testing my reflexes. He tapped lightly on each knee in slightly the wrong place. He asked if I had knee replacements as there wasn't much reflex action. I said, you tapped a little off site. He said, "Hmmmm", but didn't repeat the test. I came home, sat on a chair, crossed my legs and tapped. Almost put my own eye out with the leg jerk I got. Next time I'll teach him how to do that test!
Anyway, in celebration of the birthday I have coming in a few days when I will officially be 73, here's to me! I still love lilacs and lily of the valley. I spin yarn and knit. I clean my own home (when I feel like it). I cook my husband's meals (when I feel like it; heh, heh). I come truly alive and awake when the first cool days of autumn arrive, watch the leaves turn, decorate with delight, and savor the autumn bounty of harvest. I can hardly get a coat on fast enough to be out in the first snow flakes tumbling from the sky and I shovel walks for the fun of being out there. Just watch my dust when my new Mint Green tricycle arrives! I show you who is old! I'll ride the rubber off those tires (well, that is, until the summer temperatures make it too hot to be out there). You can bet though that when that first fall leaf is yellowing or reddening, I'll ride again until snowfall!
One of those moments is when I have been sitting a while and try to stand up. I stand up immediately; my knees not so immediately. They don't creak or snap often nor do they make grating noises. But something makes them hurt when I want to straighten them and I have to be patient while I get them to be fully straight before I take a step. Of course, the reverse is true when I want to bend them.
My hearing is fine, but my cognitive translation of what I hear is off. If you have recently said something to me and received my wise-old-owl expression, it is because I heard the words but they didn't hang together in a way that makes sense. My loving spouse sees that expression and begins shouting, "Earth to Judy!" Well, at least the planet I'm on can still hear even if we can't string the pearls of wisdom together in the correct order. On his planet, they walk around with a blank expression followed by a smile and a nod which indicates "I heard something, but I'm just not interested enough to ask what you said!" (That is not strictly fair -- sometimes the hard of hearing receive that impatient look with eyes rolled because we have to repeat. We force them to pretend rather than ask and receive that look again.)
Another shock to the system is a look in the mirror. Sometimes I look and I see what I want to see: hair 6, eyes 8, make-up 9 on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being really very good. Sometimes I wonder who that old woman is. I would like to ask her to get out of my mirror; but no reflection at all would be terrifying!
Having been underweight for most of my life and spending my middle years with a good amount of weight, I am shocked now to note I am more than pleasingly plump. Add to that my 5' 4" frame has dwindled to 5' 3.5" and plump doesn't describe it. I have several outfits that I call my "very tall and slender" outfits. When I have them on I feel, elegant bordering on regal, charming, graceful. There are several things that destroy my self-image. One would be a quick glance in the mirror. Another would be when I stick the toe of one foot inside the pant-leg of the other and trip myself. There is always the chance that the odd shaped decorative something on my bosom is just my luncheon spill.
When I last saw my doctor, the nurse informed me I had lost stature. I said, "I could have told you that because much of what I used to be able to reach in my cupboards is now out of reach; and I was the one who put them there several months ago!" She didn't know what to do so she smiled and nodded. Hrumph! If I can't laugh at what's happening to me, what will be the fun of aging? After all it is not like looking forward to 16 and being able to drive, 21 and being able to drink, 55 and your first seniors meal. At 73, you just don't get excited about the color of your upcoming wheel chair, or the people who will write on your hip cast when you fall, or the make and model of your casket. There has to be laughter and fun and love.
Another odd thing about the doctor visit was testing my reflexes. He tapped lightly on each knee in slightly the wrong place. He asked if I had knee replacements as there wasn't much reflex action. I said, you tapped a little off site. He said, "Hmmmm", but didn't repeat the test. I came home, sat on a chair, crossed my legs and tapped. Almost put my own eye out with the leg jerk I got. Next time I'll teach him how to do that test!
Anyway, in celebration of the birthday I have coming in a few days when I will officially be 73, here's to me! I still love lilacs and lily of the valley. I spin yarn and knit. I clean my own home (when I feel like it). I cook my husband's meals (when I feel like it; heh, heh). I come truly alive and awake when the first cool days of autumn arrive, watch the leaves turn, decorate with delight, and savor the autumn bounty of harvest. I can hardly get a coat on fast enough to be out in the first snow flakes tumbling from the sky and I shovel walks for the fun of being out there. Just watch my dust when my new Mint Green tricycle arrives! I show you who is old! I'll ride the rubber off those tires (well, that is, until the summer temperatures make it too hot to be out there). You can bet though that when that first fall leaf is yellowing or reddening, I'll ride again until snowfall!
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