...from my brother. A friend sent me a note card a couple of years ago, with a picture on it that I thought my brother would find interesting. The front of the note card had a reproduction of an old time tinted postcard. I made a copy of the illustration and sent it to my brother, living in Virginia. He responded with a story about the post office building.
It is a big two-story, dark-red brick rectangle sitting on the main thoroughfare in the small town where we grew up. I recall going with my dad to pick up his mail out of his little box there when I was a child. And what a big deal it was, when I finally got old enough for him to give me the key and let me go in by myself to get his mail without having an 'adult' along. My brother, being older, was, of course, allowed this honor long before I could: a marker of maturity, I suppose?
When I sent my brother the copy of the note card he told me the last time he was in that building was when he went to sign up for the draft. All males over the age of 18 were required to register. He had been deferred while he was in college, and was required to sign up when he finished his degree. So he went to the draft board, located in the upstairs of the post office building. He was told that his number was 333 (out of a possible 365). You can imagine how relieved he was to feel like it was a pretty safe bet he would not be going to Vietnam.
He said he called his dad, and told him the results of his registering for the military draft. Dad said: "you do not have anything to worry about, time to get on with your life." So he got a job, married, had a family and a happy life. Luck of the draw? Maybe. Part of a plan we mortals do not have the wisdom and perspective to see? Definitely.
Monday, January 29, 2018
"no one's coming"...
...it's up to us." Sounds like something you would see on a bumper sticker while waiting for the light to change. That might have come from a movie script or dialog from a series on tv about the apocalypse. Could be a line from a character in a story about the last ragged remnant of surviving humans trying to out match some evil force as the baddies are coming over the hill enmasse.
I've had it on my mind in the past couple of weeks, after hearing it quoted. Something that could be applied to most every situation you encounter through out the day, week, year - both small and monumental. Inconsequential daily tasks that it is sadly obvious no one else is going to take the time to do: take out the trash, mop the floor, put those dishes that have been sitting in the sink for three days in the dish washer.
As well as the really big stuff: who is going to pick up the mess after a political stand-off results in a world wide disaster? What the planet is facing due to powerful people denying the reality of climate change/global warming/rising oceans? Thousands of plastic bags someone must think just disappear, when they wash into the rivers and oceans due to human indifference? Half the population of the planet living without access to clean, safe potable water? (While those of us fortunate enough to have it in surplus waste it without conscious thought.)
There are times when I have failed to be sympathetic when hearing some tale of woe, thinking while listening to the litany: 'this is a mess of your own making.' After hearing someone tell of a trip to central America and seeing people walk five miles with jugs to get safe drinking water from a spring, I realize how thankful I should be for drinking water at the turn of a faucet. As well as the useful, utility of household appliances, electricity to run them and the financial resources to pay for it all.
Taking too much for granted: time to be thankful for living in America. But also realizing and understanding: 'no one's coming, we're on our own', so we need to be much better stewards of what we have.
I've had it on my mind in the past couple of weeks, after hearing it quoted. Something that could be applied to most every situation you encounter through out the day, week, year - both small and monumental. Inconsequential daily tasks that it is sadly obvious no one else is going to take the time to do: take out the trash, mop the floor, put those dishes that have been sitting in the sink for three days in the dish washer.
As well as the really big stuff: who is going to pick up the mess after a political stand-off results in a world wide disaster? What the planet is facing due to powerful people denying the reality of climate change/global warming/rising oceans? Thousands of plastic bags someone must think just disappear, when they wash into the rivers and oceans due to human indifference? Half the population of the planet living without access to clean, safe potable water? (While those of us fortunate enough to have it in surplus waste it without conscious thought.)
There are times when I have failed to be sympathetic when hearing some tale of woe, thinking while listening to the litany: 'this is a mess of your own making.' After hearing someone tell of a trip to central America and seeing people walk five miles with jugs to get safe drinking water from a spring, I realize how thankful I should be for drinking water at the turn of a faucet. As well as the useful, utility of household appliances, electricity to run them and the financial resources to pay for it all.
Taking too much for granted: time to be thankful for living in America. But also realizing and understanding: 'no one's coming, we're on our own', so we need to be much better stewards of what we have.
Friday, January 26, 2018
this is supposed to...
...make me feel better about the situation with the auntie. As I was leaving the facility where she lives, someone who obviously works there asked if I was ok? And: 'is there anything I could do to help?' I told her who I was and how I had just brought the auntie back from a dental appointment. How the auntie (who has zero short term memory) refused to understand that she would have to stay in the assisted living facility: which she claims to hate, cannot stand another minute and is desperate to get away from. Demanding to know who is going to pay for that place, insisting it is too expensive, and swearing that she is: completely miserable, the food is awful, the workers are terrible and she is miserable. And, also, how much she hates it.
This worker told me a really heart aching story. She is one of five siblings, but none of the others were willing to take any responsibility for their mom, all saying: Let Cheryl do it. Her mom had remarried, but the aging couple were both in such dire straits, Cheryl had to insist her mom get a divorce. To force the adult children of the husband into a position where they could/would have to take care of the man, as Cheryl had her hands full trying to tend to mom with failing memory.
She said: 'I really do know what you are going through. It is awful, heart wrenching, and so sadly frustrating for you to feel like you are doing the very best that you know how, yet still being badgered and bullied. Getting nothing but complaints and criticism even though it is obvious there is no one else to step up and take responsibility.' And then she said something that really brought me to tears.
Something that I have probably told a dozen people in the past year. Folks I have witnessed being caring and compassionate, offering kindness and hospitality to others in need. People who have opened their doors and wallets and hearts to people who have for various reasons gotten into circumstances where they feel the waves washing over their heads: desperate for a life preserver, but simply out of hope.
I've seen vastly differing circumstances a number of times in recent months, that result in similar reactions: people putting their plans, priorities and lives on hold, taking the time to provide a needed service, or boost up. Being that individual who does not cross to the other side of the road to avoid a problem, but stops to offer help. Like that traveler in the parable who stopped to bind the wounds, provide first aid, a safe haven, rather than lifting the hem of his garment to avoid the time-consuming complications that stopping might entail.
These are the ones need to hear what Cheryl told me today. They are the caregivers who do the job day in an day out. Choosing to do the messy, sloppy, often distasteful jobs that are so necessary. And they are the ones we need to acknowledge, stop, give a hug and say: (this is what Cheryl said to me) "you are going to have a wealth of stars in your crown when you get to heaven." Meaning, I think, as I have often said it to others, friends, relatives or complete strangers who are usually caring for aging parent(s). Wanting them to know our hearts ache for them, and our belief and hope that there might not be any body who notices what you are doing here in this life, but you will most assuredly find your reward in the next one.
This worker told me a really heart aching story. She is one of five siblings, but none of the others were willing to take any responsibility for their mom, all saying: Let Cheryl do it. Her mom had remarried, but the aging couple were both in such dire straits, Cheryl had to insist her mom get a divorce. To force the adult children of the husband into a position where they could/would have to take care of the man, as Cheryl had her hands full trying to tend to mom with failing memory.
She said: 'I really do know what you are going through. It is awful, heart wrenching, and so sadly frustrating for you to feel like you are doing the very best that you know how, yet still being badgered and bullied. Getting nothing but complaints and criticism even though it is obvious there is no one else to step up and take responsibility.' And then she said something that really brought me to tears.
Something that I have probably told a dozen people in the past year. Folks I have witnessed being caring and compassionate, offering kindness and hospitality to others in need. People who have opened their doors and wallets and hearts to people who have for various reasons gotten into circumstances where they feel the waves washing over their heads: desperate for a life preserver, but simply out of hope.
I've seen vastly differing circumstances a number of times in recent months, that result in similar reactions: people putting their plans, priorities and lives on hold, taking the time to provide a needed service, or boost up. Being that individual who does not cross to the other side of the road to avoid a problem, but stops to offer help. Like that traveler in the parable who stopped to bind the wounds, provide first aid, a safe haven, rather than lifting the hem of his garment to avoid the time-consuming complications that stopping might entail.
These are the ones need to hear what Cheryl told me today. They are the caregivers who do the job day in an day out. Choosing to do the messy, sloppy, often distasteful jobs that are so necessary. And they are the ones we need to acknowledge, stop, give a hug and say: (this is what Cheryl said to me) "you are going to have a wealth of stars in your crown when you get to heaven." Meaning, I think, as I have often said it to others, friends, relatives or complete strangers who are usually caring for aging parent(s). Wanting them to know our hearts ache for them, and our belief and hope that there might not be any body who notices what you are doing here in this life, but you will most assuredly find your reward in the next one.
Thursday, January 25, 2018
left @ 6:30 am...
...and got back to the house at 6:30 pm. Spent over seven of those twelve hours driving, either to and from Valdosta, or with the auntie taking her to the dental appt., running errands while she had her mouth open. It is hard to think of this as being an exhausting day, when I have spent the greatest part of it sitting on my backside, inert. But I was not immobile: drove over four hundred miles, to end up right back where I started from.
When I got home, The Man Who Lives Here asked about how my day was. I said 'other than the auntie, it was a very productive day'. Made several stops while she was in the dentists' chair and feel like I got a lot accomplished - getting some paperwork the CPA will need to prepare her taxes. Which I am sure would never get done if I did not put the effort into assembling all the pieces of the puzzle to turn over for tax return prep.
The sad, distressing part of the day was taking her back to the assisted living facility where she was relocated last June: almost eight months ago. About five miles west of town, we turned down the road she lives on, a narrow lane, almost tunnel like, with overhanging oak trees draped in Spanish moss. She asked where we were going, and I told her we were headed to Fellowship.
She wanted to know if I knew anyone who lived there? I said 'yes, I do.' She asked if we were going to visit. I forgot she cannot remember anything, and assumed she was referring to a friend we both knew from years ago, who worked at a church in the town where I grew up. We had just been talking about this woman, and how she had been such a faithful worker for so many years. Working into her nineties in the church office, before she retired, probably due to failing eyesight. But finally got to the point that she could not manage to live independently, and had sell her home and relocate into communal care facility.
When I parked and we got out of the car, and were going towards the entrance, she said she would leave her purse in the car, since we were just going in for a visit. I knew that was a bad omen. But decided not to press the issue. We admitted ourselves in to the hallway, and she asked what we were doing there: apparently having no memory of having ever been there. Not earlier in the day or ever. Completely unaware that she has been living there for eight months. I could tell this was not going to end well...
We walked on to her room, and she wanted to know how her furniture got there. I told her she had been living there since June. She was so confused. Wanted to know who was going to pay for all that. I said she could. She said it was too expensive and she was not going to pay. I said 'ok.' She demanded to know who would pay, and I told her she could.
And decided retreat truly is the better part of valor. So I left. If it were not for the fact that she has dementia, and cannot retain anything long enough to put a period on the end of a sentence, I would be confident she still has steam coming out of her ears, waiting for me to come back to finish our conversation.
When I got home, The Man Who Lives Here asked about how my day was. I said 'other than the auntie, it was a very productive day'. Made several stops while she was in the dentists' chair and feel like I got a lot accomplished - getting some paperwork the CPA will need to prepare her taxes. Which I am sure would never get done if I did not put the effort into assembling all the pieces of the puzzle to turn over for tax return prep.
The sad, distressing part of the day was taking her back to the assisted living facility where she was relocated last June: almost eight months ago. About five miles west of town, we turned down the road she lives on, a narrow lane, almost tunnel like, with overhanging oak trees draped in Spanish moss. She asked where we were going, and I told her we were headed to Fellowship.
She wanted to know if I knew anyone who lived there? I said 'yes, I do.' She asked if we were going to visit. I forgot she cannot remember anything, and assumed she was referring to a friend we both knew from years ago, who worked at a church in the town where I grew up. We had just been talking about this woman, and how she had been such a faithful worker for so many years. Working into her nineties in the church office, before she retired, probably due to failing eyesight. But finally got to the point that she could not manage to live independently, and had sell her home and relocate into communal care facility.
When I parked and we got out of the car, and were going towards the entrance, she said she would leave her purse in the car, since we were just going in for a visit. I knew that was a bad omen. But decided not to press the issue. We admitted ourselves in to the hallway, and she asked what we were doing there: apparently having no memory of having ever been there. Not earlier in the day or ever. Completely unaware that she has been living there for eight months. I could tell this was not going to end well...
We walked on to her room, and she wanted to know how her furniture got there. I told her she had been living there since June. She was so confused. Wanted to know who was going to pay for all that. I said she could. She said it was too expensive and she was not going to pay. I said 'ok.' She demanded to know who would pay, and I told her she could.
And decided retreat truly is the better part of valor. So I left. If it were not for the fact that she has dementia, and cannot retain anything long enough to put a period on the end of a sentence, I would be confident she still has steam coming out of her ears, waiting for me to come back to finish our conversation.
up and ready to go...
... even though I am not on the schedule to be at work at 6 am. Headed south today, to go to Valdosta and take the auntie to a dental appointment. It is really odd that she will be having a tooth replaced, as she has historically been so obsessive about dental care over the years - a much better flosser than I have ever been. But when I took her back the end of last year, the office staff reported they had been 'watching' a place on a molar that had some 'problems'. Apparently the thing is now to let decay take it 's course until it is time to do something remedial about it?
She will have to sit in the chair with her mouth propped open for some time while hands go in. Starting the process of (grimace, squint) grinding down a molar to get the bad stuff out, and make a temporary covering. Then go back for a second appointment in several weeks when the permanent cap comes in that will make everything 'just like new!' For the small fee of only $1200! Won't that be fun?
I am optimistic, hoping for a good outcome: but with a person who has no short term memory, not at all sure how successful this venture will be. With her long history of being so compulsive about taking good care of her mouth, I am a bit surprised there is something in there that needs professional attention. Assume that she has been more neglectful as she has lost the short term memory/ability to do the careful consistent maintenance that has so dutifully occurred over the years. Plus the environment in there has likely changed over time. With a different moisture level or bone loss as happens with aging.
Let's all be hopeful this will be a successful outing. I am thankful I will not be the one who will be in the room with her, continually reminding her she needs to 'open wide'. And that she will not be snapping and snarling at me when it is over, blaming me for all the things that have gone wrong in her life.
She will have to sit in the chair with her mouth propped open for some time while hands go in. Starting the process of (grimace, squint) grinding down a molar to get the bad stuff out, and make a temporary covering. Then go back for a second appointment in several weeks when the permanent cap comes in that will make everything 'just like new!' For the small fee of only $1200! Won't that be fun?
I am optimistic, hoping for a good outcome: but with a person who has no short term memory, not at all sure how successful this venture will be. With her long history of being so compulsive about taking good care of her mouth, I am a bit surprised there is something in there that needs professional attention. Assume that she has been more neglectful as she has lost the short term memory/ability to do the careful consistent maintenance that has so dutifully occurred over the years. Plus the environment in there has likely changed over time. With a different moisture level or bone loss as happens with aging.
Let's all be hopeful this will be a successful outing. I am thankful I will not be the one who will be in the room with her, continually reminding her she needs to 'open wide'. And that she will not be snapping and snarling at me when it is over, blaming me for all the things that have gone wrong in her life.
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
he told this tale...
...I thought I better write it down. I was so young I do not have a personal awareness of this happening, but hearing him talk about it brought back a memory of hearing it from my mom years ago. I will have to assume it is true, but I was of such a tender age, it is not in my memory, plus the details are so distressing I would prefer to believe it did not happen.
My brother said he and a neighbor found a can of green paint, stored in a shed belonging to the family that lived next door. The vandals did not find brushes, but were not discouraged, and used pieces of cardboard for paint brushes and painted ME. I apparently was so delighted that the guys were giving me some attention, I stood right there and let it happen. I'm guessing I was maybe four or five years old, and he would have been possibly six, with his accomplice of an age between the two of us. Pretty likely that the guys were old enough to know it was not a good idea, but when they were left unsupervised for long enough, mischief would likely occur.
In the retelling, he reported that it was a latex paint, which is a thousand times better than thinking it was an oil base as far as the cleaning up of a paint-covered four year old is concerned. I was surprised to hear that it was a water based paint, as I did not think latex existed that long ago. But I will be thankful that my hide is still intact, and did not get scrubbed off in the paint removal process. Fortunately, we all lived to tell about it. There was no mention of any one being punished for the surreptitious activity - so after the child turned back to a normal color, perhaps the adults all had a good laugh?
When I heard my mom tell this years ago, the thing I remember her saying is that the only thing she could see that made her know it was me was my eyes. Everything else was covered in green paint. That's all I know.
My brother said he and a neighbor found a can of green paint, stored in a shed belonging to the family that lived next door. The vandals did not find brushes, but were not discouraged, and used pieces of cardboard for paint brushes and painted ME. I apparently was so delighted that the guys were giving me some attention, I stood right there and let it happen. I'm guessing I was maybe four or five years old, and he would have been possibly six, with his accomplice of an age between the two of us. Pretty likely that the guys were old enough to know it was not a good idea, but when they were left unsupervised for long enough, mischief would likely occur.
In the retelling, he reported that it was a latex paint, which is a thousand times better than thinking it was an oil base as far as the cleaning up of a paint-covered four year old is concerned. I was surprised to hear that it was a water based paint, as I did not think latex existed that long ago. But I will be thankful that my hide is still intact, and did not get scrubbed off in the paint removal process. Fortunately, we all lived to tell about it. There was no mention of any one being punished for the surreptitious activity - so after the child turned back to a normal color, perhaps the adults all had a good laugh?
When I heard my mom tell this years ago, the thing I remember her saying is that the only thing she could see that made her know it was me was my eyes. Everything else was covered in green paint. That's all I know.
Monday, January 22, 2018
doctor approved...
... when he told me he did not need to see me again. Said the hand/arm looks good. When I reminded him that I had a problem and a had made an appointment for a consult before I fell and needed emergency care. He said: 'Oh'. And told me I would have to make another appointment to talk to him about the 'original' problem. Which I did, because it still hurts.
I asked him if I was done with rehab. work as well, and he said that was up to the rehab. people. I guess I'm really not quite ready, as I know I do not have full mobility of that damaged joint. I went back to see the rehab person today, and she, once again, gave me a hard time about not doing what she has instructed. I told her I left town as soon as I saw her last week, and did not do the exercises/joint stretching things while I was traveling. Wondering if I get any points for honesty?
My next appointment with rehab is ten days away, and I am expecting she will turn me loose. Sort of surprised that insurance has been willing to pay for therapy visits for such an extended period of time. But I do know better than to question that! It feels pretty good, but admittedly I have not really put it to strenuous use since I was at work last week. The test will be how I manage when I am at work all day on Tuesday.
I asked him if I was done with rehab. work as well, and he said that was up to the rehab. people. I guess I'm really not quite ready, as I know I do not have full mobility of that damaged joint. I went back to see the rehab person today, and she, once again, gave me a hard time about not doing what she has instructed. I told her I left town as soon as I saw her last week, and did not do the exercises/joint stretching things while I was traveling. Wondering if I get any points for honesty?
My next appointment with rehab is ten days away, and I am expecting she will turn me loose. Sort of surprised that insurance has been willing to pay for therapy visits for such an extended period of time. But I do know better than to question that! It feels pretty good, but admittedly I have not really put it to strenuous use since I was at work last week. The test will be how I manage when I am at work all day on Tuesday.
Sunday, January 21, 2018
in Atlanta....
...the traffic is crazy, scary, overwhelming and frightening. I usually get myself into town to point A, then turn the keys over to someone else. People who live here who seem to have no hesitation for drive like maniacs. While I sit in the passenger seat with my feet firmly pressing on the non-existent brake pedal, and eyes squinted nearly closed.
If you find traffic in the city as intimidating as I do, not only do you avoid it as much as possible, you deliberately do not learn how to navigate. So determined to avoid, you fail to make any effort to find all the shortcuts that help avoid congestion and traffic lights. Absorbing just the bare minimum of information that will get you where you want to be. I often tell people when talking about life in the city that the Only reason I go there is to see people I love. If there were not people I care about in that confusing place, I would never get anywhere close to all that mess: constant, endless highway construction, orange barrels and cones, slit fencing, dug up streets, abandoned cars everywhere.
I have a cousin who have lived here for years, and always amazes me when I ride with her: traveling through alleys, down side streets, slipping along through residential neighborhoods, avoiding backed up intersections. She really knows her way around, as a result of living and working all over for most of her adult life. Very adept at navigation in and out of traffic, changing lanes as traffic slows with impunity, fearless at running through yellow lights.
But all that whizzing around, changing lanes, dashing through residential areas makes me want to say: 'let me know when we get there'. Close my eyes and begin my meditations. Except that I would probably get car-sick if I was not wide-eyed and alert.
I took myself to the cousins' house earlier in the day, to ride with her to visit a relative. And accidentally left my warm cozy gloves in her car. So had to go back as it was getting dark to retrieve the hand-covers out of her mailbox. Taking a passenger along, who knows and likes city driving even less than I do. Although my claim is to know nothing about navigating in the city, I confessed I do know how to get from point A to point B. And proved that by going twice yesterday. Safely.
If you find traffic in the city as intimidating as I do, not only do you avoid it as much as possible, you deliberately do not learn how to navigate. So determined to avoid, you fail to make any effort to find all the shortcuts that help avoid congestion and traffic lights. Absorbing just the bare minimum of information that will get you where you want to be. I often tell people when talking about life in the city that the Only reason I go there is to see people I love. If there were not people I care about in that confusing place, I would never get anywhere close to all that mess: constant, endless highway construction, orange barrels and cones, slit fencing, dug up streets, abandoned cars everywhere.
I have a cousin who have lived here for years, and always amazes me when I ride with her: traveling through alleys, down side streets, slipping along through residential neighborhoods, avoiding backed up intersections. She really knows her way around, as a result of living and working all over for most of her adult life. Very adept at navigation in and out of traffic, changing lanes as traffic slows with impunity, fearless at running through yellow lights.
But all that whizzing around, changing lanes, dashing through residential areas makes me want to say: 'let me know when we get there'. Close my eyes and begin my meditations. Except that I would probably get car-sick if I was not wide-eyed and alert.
I took myself to the cousins' house earlier in the day, to ride with her to visit a relative. And accidentally left my warm cozy gloves in her car. So had to go back as it was getting dark to retrieve the hand-covers out of her mailbox. Taking a passenger along, who knows and likes city driving even less than I do. Although my claim is to know nothing about navigating in the city, I confessed I do know how to get from point A to point B. And proved that by going twice yesterday. Safely.
Saturday, January 20, 2018
book review: "Tiger, Tiger"...
... a memoir written by Margaux Fragoso. Another of those books I read while driving, making me sound like a really dangerous person out there on the interstate. It was pretty long, maybe ten discs, so it took me a couple of weeks to get it read, during a time when I was not tearing around the state like my shirt-tail is on fire.
Just randomly chosen off the shelf in the library, but one I knew I would want to read to the last page, in the hope that there was a desirable resolution, and justice to be had at the end. Written by a young woman who spent years in a relationship with a pedophile. In the way that you find yourself slowing down to observe a disaster: train wrecks, terrible auto mishaps, mangled vehicles after the crash - you keep reading, desperately hoping someone will intervene and snatch the main character from this manipulative predator.
She first meets Peter when she is eight years old, and he slowly grooms her, incrementally leading her down the path he has chosen. He has children from a failed marriage, that he is not allowed to see due to molesting his own daughters. A compulsive, un-repentant predator, he leads this young innocent into a relationship he desires, making her think she loves him, wants to marry him and have children with this man.
Pretty disgusting. But as he sees this child, under the guise of friendship, inviting her and her mother to his house, luring the two into feeling comfortable and safe. We learn that her mother suffers from mental illness, is periodically hospitalized, on a variety of prescription meds., and unable to see the path the relationship between a pre-teen and a middle aged man is taking.
I don't recall if it was listed as fiction, but it sounds so believable, my thought is that it is a true story. Especially believable as we are so aware of all that has been in the media in recent months. Men behaving badly and appearing to suffer no consequences for years despite despicable actions. So unpardonable, you think: lock them all up and throw away the key.
(Another piece I found in the drafts folder, unpublished. I read the book last year, before all that nasty stuff started showing up in the news. But I can verify, from personal experience, that men can do some terrible things and have no idea their actions are inappropriate, creating long-lasting damage.)
Just randomly chosen off the shelf in the library, but one I knew I would want to read to the last page, in the hope that there was a desirable resolution, and justice to be had at the end. Written by a young woman who spent years in a relationship with a pedophile. In the way that you find yourself slowing down to observe a disaster: train wrecks, terrible auto mishaps, mangled vehicles after the crash - you keep reading, desperately hoping someone will intervene and snatch the main character from this manipulative predator.
She first meets Peter when she is eight years old, and he slowly grooms her, incrementally leading her down the path he has chosen. He has children from a failed marriage, that he is not allowed to see due to molesting his own daughters. A compulsive, un-repentant predator, he leads this young innocent into a relationship he desires, making her think she loves him, wants to marry him and have children with this man.
Pretty disgusting. But as he sees this child, under the guise of friendship, inviting her and her mother to his house, luring the two into feeling comfortable and safe. We learn that her mother suffers from mental illness, is periodically hospitalized, on a variety of prescription meds., and unable to see the path the relationship between a pre-teen and a middle aged man is taking.
I don't recall if it was listed as fiction, but it sounds so believable, my thought is that it is a true story. Especially believable as we are so aware of all that has been in the media in recent months. Men behaving badly and appearing to suffer no consequences for years despite despicable actions. So unpardonable, you think: lock them all up and throw away the key.
(Another piece I found in the drafts folder, unpublished. I read the book last year, before all that nasty stuff started showing up in the news. But I can verify, from personal experience, that men can do some terrible things and have no idea their actions are inappropriate, creating long-lasting damage.)
the faded, foggy past...
(written back in September, but never published. Found languishing in the 'drafts' folder, waiting for me to come up with something positive to say about re-visiting the past.)
... came to mind when I started thinking about a class reunion. I will not confess the year of graduation. Though I will report there are people who graduated with me from Kindergarten who were also part of the group that wore gowns and square hats in a much larger size when we finished twelve more years of education. It would be interesting to know how many of those folks, the ones I knew when I was 17 and set out to make my way in the world, have spent the intervening years in that same place where we started from.
There were 100 people in my graduating class, unless a couple of them did not have the grades to be issued the costume we were required to wear. Some are now wearing wings and halos, some simply could not be found, some declined to attend. There was a pretty good crowd there, most were with spouses. Plus assorted singles who were unattached for
I left early, after speaking to the few people I have had contact with in the intervening years. I had to get up early to go to work the next day, so needed to get to bed, but began to get some really bad vibes. Like something really bad was going to happen. A sort of premonition of tragedy. A definite creepiness, the kind of thing that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck for no apparent reason.
... came to mind when I started thinking about a class reunion. I will not confess the year of graduation. Though I will report there are people who graduated with me from Kindergarten who were also part of the group that wore gowns and square hats in a much larger size when we finished twelve more years of education. It would be interesting to know how many of those folks, the ones I knew when I was 17 and set out to make my way in the world, have spent the intervening years in that same place where we started from.
There were 100 people in my graduating class, unless a couple of them did not have the grades to be issued the costume we were required to wear. Some are now wearing wings and halos, some simply could not be found, some declined to attend. There was a pretty good crowd there, most were with spouses. Plus assorted singles who were unattached for
I left early, after speaking to the few people I have had contact with in the intervening years. I had to get up early to go to work the next day, so needed to get to bed, but began to get some really bad vibes. Like something really bad was going to happen. A sort of premonition of tragedy. A definite creepiness, the kind of thing that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck for no apparent reason.
a day on the river...
(written back in September, awaiting some amusing photos, showing girls on rafts in hilarious states of dis-repair, barely holding together by wisps of string, as the scouts paddle furiously to the end point of the race. The photos never materialized. Sorry.)
... in the eastern most part of TN. About as close to NC as you can get without actually being there. Not precisely to the point of being able to stand with one foot in NC and the other in TN, as you take a photo with the 'state line' sign in the background. But really close, when we went to the Hiwassee River, as it burbles out of the bottom of a dam and runs towards the mighty Tennessee River. Driving about an hour and a half east from Chattanooga, through towns like Ooltewah and Reliance.
The purpose of the excursion was to convene on the riverbank with a group of Girl Scouts: accepting a challenge to build a river-worthy raft. They would launch and float about five miles down the river. Given safety parameters like: everyone wears a flotation device, and there should be one more inner tube than the number of girls participating. The rafts were tubes lashed to bamboo poles, with most of the materials hopefully environmentally friendly, some even had cushions securely attached for girls comfort.
As we observed the girls assembling their projects, some were obviously more experienced than others. Securing the assembled parts with multiple loops and knots, obviously having practiced their skills before arriving. Others were more haphazard, lackadaisical, but all the girls were invested and industriously knotting and working together. No parents doing the work, once they got all their parts unloaded and laid out on the grass. A water safety volunteer looked over each project to assure that even the slap-dash rafts met minimum compliance. And there were ample canoeists and kayaks on the water with each of the seven groups to provide help if needed.
There were lots of parents, troop leaders and on-lookers with varying degrees of anxiety about their charges' well-being. But the wide river was never more than chest deep, even as water was released from the dam upstream. From a boat ramp, at a river rafter-outfitters' establishment, the groups of girls put their craft in the very cold water, and got aboard. Accompanied by volunteer boaters, paddling along with each raft as the girls began to make their way downstream.
After the launching, amid much cheering, enthusiastic send-off, we raced off down the road, to wave and clap as the rafters passed by several picnic spots. Then on to the finish line, which was a boat ramp, near a bridge over the river. The process from launch to the end took about two hours, with most girls paddling, or poleing to hurry their craft along. If they had not all had paddles, I expect some would still be approaching the take-out point, drifting along with the current. Caught in overhanging limbs, stuck on rocks, or snagged in submerged trees.
A few of the tubes deflated, causing framework to sag, rigging to get wet and the entire contraption partially submerge. Some were so well designed, they arrived intact, to much applause and sighs of relief. One group barely arrived, sodden and frustrated, while another group abandoned their efforts mid-stream, and jumped off the river at a campground. Some got off their raggedy craft in tears, but all lived to raft another day. And will, in time, eventually get to the point that they will enjoy telling tales of the day around the campfire.
Sept. 9, 2014
... in the eastern most part of TN. About as close to NC as you can get without actually being there. Not precisely to the point of being able to stand with one foot in NC and the other in TN, as you take a photo with the 'state line' sign in the background. But really close, when we went to the Hiwassee River, as it burbles out of the bottom of a dam and runs towards the mighty Tennessee River. Driving about an hour and a half east from Chattanooga, through towns like Ooltewah and Reliance.
The purpose of the excursion was to convene on the riverbank with a group of Girl Scouts: accepting a challenge to build a river-worthy raft. They would launch and float about five miles down the river. Given safety parameters like: everyone wears a flotation device, and there should be one more inner tube than the number of girls participating. The rafts were tubes lashed to bamboo poles, with most of the materials hopefully environmentally friendly, some even had cushions securely attached for girls comfort.
As we observed the girls assembling their projects, some were obviously more experienced than others. Securing the assembled parts with multiple loops and knots, obviously having practiced their skills before arriving. Others were more haphazard, lackadaisical, but all the girls were invested and industriously knotting and working together. No parents doing the work, once they got all their parts unloaded and laid out on the grass. A water safety volunteer looked over each project to assure that even the slap-dash rafts met minimum compliance. And there were ample canoeists and kayaks on the water with each of the seven groups to provide help if needed.
There were lots of parents, troop leaders and on-lookers with varying degrees of anxiety about their charges' well-being. But the wide river was never more than chest deep, even as water was released from the dam upstream. From a boat ramp, at a river rafter-outfitters' establishment, the groups of girls put their craft in the very cold water, and got aboard. Accompanied by volunteer boaters, paddling along with each raft as the girls began to make their way downstream.
After the launching, amid much cheering, enthusiastic send-off, we raced off down the road, to wave and clap as the rafters passed by several picnic spots. Then on to the finish line, which was a boat ramp, near a bridge over the river. The process from launch to the end took about two hours, with most girls paddling, or poleing to hurry their craft along. If they had not all had paddles, I expect some would still be approaching the take-out point, drifting along with the current. Caught in overhanging limbs, stuck on rocks, or snagged in submerged trees.
A few of the tubes deflated, causing framework to sag, rigging to get wet and the entire contraption partially submerge. Some were so well designed, they arrived intact, to much applause and sighs of relief. One group barely arrived, sodden and frustrated, while another group abandoned their efforts mid-stream, and jumped off the river at a campground. Some got off their raggedy craft in tears, but all lived to raft another day. And will, in time, eventually get to the point that they will enjoy telling tales of the day around the campfire.
Sept. 9, 2014
wide-eyed...
... at 1:19 a.m., and 2:05, and 3:15. Sleeping so poorly, for several nights in a row as if I had to wonder if my neurons were overloaded on caffeine(which I rarely consume.) Baffled as to why I have been lying there in the dark on full alert for night after night, trying to figure out what is causing my brain to turn on in the wee hours. Thought processes running at full speed when those cells should be resting instead of firing at maximum power. Finally deciding, with ample time to ponder, it must be the OTC meds. Consumed with the idea of clearing up constantly dripping nose, sneezing, itchy throat, misc. other allergy-type symptoms.
It is probably a reflection on our culture that we think a pill can fix all our problems. Taking something to wake up, and another to go to sleep. Like Alice in The Looking Glass: one makes you taller and the other makes you shorter. Uppers and Downers, On and Off-ers. So willing to put the tab in your mouth and wash it down, without a thought for the side-effects or contra-indications.
Which brought me to actually reading all the fine print on the box. Sure enough, right there, hidden in the 'Drug Facts': Stop use and ask a doctor if you get nervous dizzy or sleepless. Along with all the other reasons you should not be consuming this particular drug. Like if you have heart disease, diabetes, glaucoma, kidney disease, high blood pressure, etc., etc., And a list of 23 inactive ingredients.
We rarely consider that everything has some sort of side effect - all have some inherent risk we just overlook in order to get the desired results. All those little pills you consume, chemicals taken without a second thought, will surely interact in your blood stream, possibly creating some highly undesirable concoctions. The request that you bring a brown paper bag every time you have a medical appointment is designed to prevent those unexpected eruptions, baffling symptoms. But then we have a runny nose, sore toe, grumbling belly and proceed to add Over The Counter meds. to the mix. Which brings about unintended consequences - like being wide-eyed at 1:19, 2:05, 3:15.
I finally got up and took more drugs (OTC, of course) that are designed to help a body sleep. Making my brain slow down, turn off and give me several hours of peace. To be awakened by the aroma of bread in the toaster coming through the heating vents. But I can already predict a nap is in the offing.
It is probably a reflection on our culture that we think a pill can fix all our problems. Taking something to wake up, and another to go to sleep. Like Alice in The Looking Glass: one makes you taller and the other makes you shorter. Uppers and Downers, On and Off-ers. So willing to put the tab in your mouth and wash it down, without a thought for the side-effects or contra-indications.
Which brought me to actually reading all the fine print on the box. Sure enough, right there, hidden in the 'Drug Facts': Stop use and ask a doctor if you get nervous dizzy or sleepless. Along with all the other reasons you should not be consuming this particular drug. Like if you have heart disease, diabetes, glaucoma, kidney disease, high blood pressure, etc., etc., And a list of 23 inactive ingredients.
We rarely consider that everything has some sort of side effect - all have some inherent risk we just overlook in order to get the desired results. All those little pills you consume, chemicals taken without a second thought, will surely interact in your blood stream, possibly creating some highly undesirable concoctions. The request that you bring a brown paper bag every time you have a medical appointment is designed to prevent those unexpected eruptions, baffling symptoms. But then we have a runny nose, sore toe, grumbling belly and proceed to add Over The Counter meds. to the mix. Which brings about unintended consequences - like being wide-eyed at 1:19, 2:05, 3:15.
I finally got up and took more drugs (OTC, of course) that are designed to help a body sleep. Making my brain slow down, turn off and give me several hours of peace. To be awakened by the aroma of bread in the toaster coming through the heating vents. But I can already predict a nap is in the offing.
Friday, January 19, 2018
mostly uneventful, except...
... for the part where it looked like the Walmart semi tractor-trailer tried to run over the little compact car. Or perhaps the little grey car tried to drive under the trailer? Causing traffic to back up for about ten miles, coming to complete standstill for a while before inching along at 3 mph. Which is about what you know to expect when you get within a fifty mile radius of the metro: but this was 'way off, out in the middle of no-where, just tooling along on the interstate with the cruise control set on 72.
Otherwise a pleasant trip to SC and back. I brought back a bad case of misplaced optimism, when I expected to find cheap gas in Carolina. It is usually fifteen cents cheaper than anything in GA - I don't know why - maybe something to do with taxes the legislature imposes? And even higher in FL, but those people farther south do not have any sales tax on groceries. With the choices of walking a hundred miles or buying a tank of gas at $2.29/gal. I judiciously decided I would save time.
One of the reasons to go to SC today was to see an exhibit of paintings in Greenville. It was in a children's museum, done by Jan Brett, who writes and illustrates children's books. I learned about this show from the sweet smart cousin who teaches education at a college in SC. When I saw the little postcard she had advertising the exhibit, I knew I wanted to get there to see the collection. Due to my desire to get on the road, I did not spend as much time as I would have liked looking at her beautiful watercolors. She has published a number of books, always dressing up animals in clothing: polar bears, chickens, various wildlife as well as domesticated animals.
The illustrations are stunning, with an amazing amount of detail in each picture, which ends up as a page in her books. In reading about her body of work, I discovered she is so painstaking and meticulous that each of her books takes about a year to complete. She travels all over the world doing research on animal behavior and studying various periods and styles of clothing. Gorgeous paintings, done in watercolor and gouache, every one of which was either a cover for a book or masterfully illustrated page in one of her books
Otherwise a pleasant trip to SC and back. I brought back a bad case of misplaced optimism, when I expected to find cheap gas in Carolina. It is usually fifteen cents cheaper than anything in GA - I don't know why - maybe something to do with taxes the legislature imposes? And even higher in FL, but those people farther south do not have any sales tax on groceries. With the choices of walking a hundred miles or buying a tank of gas at $2.29/gal. I judiciously decided I would save time.
One of the reasons to go to SC today was to see an exhibit of paintings in Greenville. It was in a children's museum, done by Jan Brett, who writes and illustrates children's books. I learned about this show from the sweet smart cousin who teaches education at a college in SC. When I saw the little postcard she had advertising the exhibit, I knew I wanted to get there to see the collection. Due to my desire to get on the road, I did not spend as much time as I would have liked looking at her beautiful watercolors. She has published a number of books, always dressing up animals in clothing: polar bears, chickens, various wildlife as well as domesticated animals.
The illustrations are stunning, with an amazing amount of detail in each picture, which ends up as a page in her books. In reading about her body of work, I discovered she is so painstaking and meticulous that each of her books takes about a year to complete. She travels all over the world doing research on animal behavior and studying various periods and styles of clothing. Gorgeous paintings, done in watercolor and gouache, every one of which was either a cover for a book or masterfully illustrated page in one of her books
travelin' today...
... on the road to South Carolina today. Hopeful the interstate is not icy. On the way north yesterday, driving to Decatur to spend the night, the roads were clear so I am not expecting any problems. There is still a lot of snow in places where the sun did not melt it, and likely plenty of icy places where it did melt, and refreeze in low temp. overnight. But I feel like the interstate gets enough traffic that it dried off and will not be slick as owl s#*t as I am driving north.
I've not been to SC for several months, though I normally try to get up to Greenville to visit my pen pal every few weeks. Health issues intervened: first me not wanting to negotiate the busy thoroughfares with a broken arm, anxious about ability to maneuver with my handicap. Then my pen pal was in the hospital for some time, and wanted to be left in peace when he got home. Asking that he not have visitors until after the holidays. Plus crazy weather no one can predict much in advance.
I have figured out, through trial and error, enough about my phone to see what the weather is like. For someone who is hopelessly inept with technology, that is quite an accomplishment. I'm pretty impressed, to know where to look to discover what the prognosticators are telling us to expect. Looks like warming and sunshine today, so I am feeling like it will be a pretty day to be out on the road.
I've not been to SC for several months, though I normally try to get up to Greenville to visit my pen pal every few weeks. Health issues intervened: first me not wanting to negotiate the busy thoroughfares with a broken arm, anxious about ability to maneuver with my handicap. Then my pen pal was in the hospital for some time, and wanted to be left in peace when he got home. Asking that he not have visitors until after the holidays. Plus crazy weather no one can predict much in advance.
I have figured out, through trial and error, enough about my phone to see what the weather is like. For someone who is hopelessly inept with technology, that is quite an accomplishment. I'm pretty impressed, to know where to look to discover what the prognosticators are telling us to expect. Looks like warming and sunshine today, so I am feeling like it will be a pretty day to be out on the road.
Thursday, January 18, 2018
winter wonderland pics
it was so amusing...
You need the reference of a recent posting about my eating habits. "you might recall..." is about my willingness to eat things found in the fridge that would put other people in the bed, or hospital, or grave. When I used up all the almond milk I put on cereal or make smoothies with, I was reduced to drinking the bottom of a carton of (cow) milk that was not really safe to consume. Oddly: I had looked at the date on it previously and decided I would not use it. Then, the next morning, without a second thought, poured it over my cold cereal and gobbled it down.
Later, but not much, when I began to have undesirable symptoms of making a bad choice, I immediately remembered about that out-dated milk. And will be much more conscious of date checking in the future. I am really remarkably dependable about using a sharpie and masking tape to put dates (and ingredients if you cannot see in the container) on lids of everything that goes in the fridge. I knew better. And after than gut-wrenching experience, will certainly be more aware in the future.
The funny part (even though there is really nothing amusing about food poisoning) is the short clip a friend sent after she read the blog. It's only about five seconds long, but shows what happens when one is less than diligent about date-checking for dairy products. I've often heard that you can feel safe using milk even if it is several days after the date printed on the carton. But when the date is from the previous year: don't even give it the sniff test, just pour it out. And thank me when you are not hugging the toilet later in the day.
Wednesday, January 17, 2018
snow day here...
... pretty unusual for middle Georgia. I received a call, telling me 'don't come to work.' Which has never ever happened before. Sun is out, so the white stuff will likely melt in the course of the day. There has been enough traffic on the streets, that I don't think they are icy, (though looking out the window, it is obvious they are not at their usual over-the-limit speed) but if it stays below freezing, it will be a problem tomorrow.
It is ironic that I got the call to stay at home: I had earlier been pondering the idea of calling in and telling them I would not be there - even though I have never in all these years missed work due to illness. As a part-time person, I do not qualify for sick-leave days, and therefore have no time off accumulated. Which works out well, as I am not in poor health. (Having completely recovered from the dangerous dairy product story!)
I have on the rare occasion reported that I could not get there: once due to a hurricane. The family was on a cruise in the Caribbean, and the ship could not dock due to high winds. The boat would have to travel under a bridge for passengers to disembark, and we could not do that until the Coast Guard inspected for safety and gave the OK. Which gave us an unexpected day of cruising, and caused me to have to call and say: I cannot get to work.
Recently, I was out of town, going to visit family in VA., and had a problem with return flights. Delayed due to weather, and missed connections causing me to be on the job according to work schedule. Which I consider circumstances beyond my control, even though I did not inquire of my boss if that was a legitimate excuse. Not being able to get to the workplace seems acceptable to me...
Snow is pretty rare here, but since we are living in the end times, anything can happen.... dramatic climate change: floods, droughts, mudslides, extreme heat and excruciating cold. Men being called out for behaving badly and getting their just desserts/consequences, zombies, solar flares affecting energy/electronics and communication.
It is ironic that I got the call to stay at home: I had earlier been pondering the idea of calling in and telling them I would not be there - even though I have never in all these years missed work due to illness. As a part-time person, I do not qualify for sick-leave days, and therefore have no time off accumulated. Which works out well, as I am not in poor health. (Having completely recovered from the dangerous dairy product story!)
I have on the rare occasion reported that I could not get there: once due to a hurricane. The family was on a cruise in the Caribbean, and the ship could not dock due to high winds. The boat would have to travel under a bridge for passengers to disembark, and we could not do that until the Coast Guard inspected for safety and gave the OK. Which gave us an unexpected day of cruising, and caused me to have to call and say: I cannot get to work.
Recently, I was out of town, going to visit family in VA., and had a problem with return flights. Delayed due to weather, and missed connections causing me to be on the job according to work schedule. Which I consider circumstances beyond my control, even though I did not inquire of my boss if that was a legitimate excuse. Not being able to get to the workplace seems acceptable to me...
Snow is pretty rare here, but since we are living in the end times, anything can happen.... dramatic climate change: floods, droughts, mudslides, extreme heat and excruciating cold. Men being called out for behaving badly and getting their just desserts/consequences, zombies, solar flares affecting energy/electronics and communication.
going to see...
... antique firearms at the museum on the University of Georgia campus in Athens. Even though I do not know much about the exhibit, I know enough to feel like I should not miss the opportunity to see what is there. When at a family gathering last summer, I heard about a special exhibition that was opening in December, running through the latter part of February. I have plans to go on Saturday, and hope to find my way to the museum and look at the rifles that are in the show.
There are guns and long arms that were made by people I am related to. According to my cousin, who lives on the other side of the state, and does a much better job of keeping up with what's going on: the title of the exhibit is "Artful Instruments of Death: Georgia Gunsmiths and Their Craft." I have known that there were forebears who lived in east GA before the War of Northern Aggression who were makers of firearms, and think my dad's grandfather was one of the men from that area who made his living as a gunsmith. The cousin, in suggesting family members would want to go to Athens to see the collection reported that many of the artifacts in this special show have never been in a place to be viewed by the public before: a number of the items on display are in private collections, lent to the Georgia Museum of Art especially for this occasion.
I have a vague memory of hearing family speak about long arms that were buried in order to keep them out of the hands of Union soldiers. Taken from a gun shop, well wrapped, and carefully hidden to keep them safe. Guns were in every household, used for supplying meat to feed families. Back in the early and mid-1800's boys from a very young age were schooled in handling guns, especially rifles that could be used to hunt game and put food on the table. So knowing that great grand-dad WT went off to war as a sharp-shooter/sniper for the Confederacy at the age of fifteen is not surprising.
Plus it was expected that if you used the gun, you would be the one to care for it, to have it cleaned and ready to shoot again as needed. Along with the privilege of using the rifle, came the responsibility for its' care: just like farm animals/livestock. You take care of it, so when the time comes it will provide the service you need. In that era, young men accepted the necessity for taking care of equipment, in order to be able to have the tools ready and dependable when the need arises.
There are guns and long arms that were made by people I am related to. According to my cousin, who lives on the other side of the state, and does a much better job of keeping up with what's going on: the title of the exhibit is "Artful Instruments of Death: Georgia Gunsmiths and Their Craft." I have known that there were forebears who lived in east GA before the War of Northern Aggression who were makers of firearms, and think my dad's grandfather was one of the men from that area who made his living as a gunsmith. The cousin, in suggesting family members would want to go to Athens to see the collection reported that many of the artifacts in this special show have never been in a place to be viewed by the public before: a number of the items on display are in private collections, lent to the Georgia Museum of Art especially for this occasion.
I have a vague memory of hearing family speak about long arms that were buried in order to keep them out of the hands of Union soldiers. Taken from a gun shop, well wrapped, and carefully hidden to keep them safe. Guns were in every household, used for supplying meat to feed families. Back in the early and mid-1800's boys from a very young age were schooled in handling guns, especially rifles that could be used to hunt game and put food on the table. So knowing that great grand-dad WT went off to war as a sharp-shooter/sniper for the Confederacy at the age of fifteen is not surprising.
Plus it was expected that if you used the gun, you would be the one to care for it, to have it cleaned and ready to shoot again as needed. Along with the privilege of using the rifle, came the responsibility for its' care: just like farm animals/livestock. You take care of it, so when the time comes it will provide the service you need. In that era, young men accepted the necessity for taking care of equipment, in order to be able to have the tools ready and dependable when the need arises.
Monday, January 15, 2018
book review: "Unbroken"...
... by Laura Hillenbrand. You probably saw the movie that was based on the book. Same title. One of the best I've read recently, and an amazing story. The subtitle: 'A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience and Redemption.'
Louie Zamperini was probably headed towards incarceration until he took up running. He was a rascal as a kid, and according Hillebrand's story probably incorrigible as a adolescent and in his early teens. His older brother encouraged him to run, get involved in track in high school, serving as his 'trainer' and forcing him to continue to run when Louie wanted to quit. He was so good he won numerous state awards, and competed in the Olympics the year they were held in Germany when Jesse Owens was a participant.
Louie volunteered for service when the US entered the war, and was trained as a bombadier. He was sent to the Pacific, and his crew went down during a search and rescue mission. Louie and the pilot and one other crew member survived the ditching, spending days on a small raft floating towards Japan. The other crewman died at sea, Louie and the pilot were captured and spent years in POW camps on small islands, being starved and tortured. A horrendous tale of mistreatment and abuse. Many POWs were used as forced labor, often injured, with no medical care, and insufficient food to keep them healthy, insufficient clothing, shoes, blankets for snowy winters. Many just disappeared, with no records kept of deaths, burials.
As the Japanese began to realize they were loosing the war, they received orders to kill all the captives, and many were put to death. Louie and others in the camp where he was held were eventually found, rescued, and returned to the US, though many families had assumed they were dead. They often took months to recover from illnesses and starvation rations, as well as the physical and mental abuse suffered at the hands of their cruel captors.
It is a remarkable story. Well researched, with lots of first hand interviews. Numerous quotes by fellow service men, as well as Zamperini, who the author spoke with many times. Louie was a remarkable man, a survivor in every sense of the word. He, as did many if not all, veterans struggled to adjust to life back in the states, having war time experiences many could never grasp or fully understand. But he managed to overcome his personal demons, turn his years of being a POW into a story people wanted to hear. He spent many years traveling, telling audiences the story of his amazing life.
Louie Zamperini was probably headed towards incarceration until he took up running. He was a rascal as a kid, and according Hillebrand's story probably incorrigible as a adolescent and in his early teens. His older brother encouraged him to run, get involved in track in high school, serving as his 'trainer' and forcing him to continue to run when Louie wanted to quit. He was so good he won numerous state awards, and competed in the Olympics the year they were held in Germany when Jesse Owens was a participant.
Louie volunteered for service when the US entered the war, and was trained as a bombadier. He was sent to the Pacific, and his crew went down during a search and rescue mission. Louie and the pilot and one other crew member survived the ditching, spending days on a small raft floating towards Japan. The other crewman died at sea, Louie and the pilot were captured and spent years in POW camps on small islands, being starved and tortured. A horrendous tale of mistreatment and abuse. Many POWs were used as forced labor, often injured, with no medical care, and insufficient food to keep them healthy, insufficient clothing, shoes, blankets for snowy winters. Many just disappeared, with no records kept of deaths, burials.
As the Japanese began to realize they were loosing the war, they received orders to kill all the captives, and many were put to death. Louie and others in the camp where he was held were eventually found, rescued, and returned to the US, though many families had assumed they were dead. They often took months to recover from illnesses and starvation rations, as well as the physical and mental abuse suffered at the hands of their cruel captors.
It is a remarkable story. Well researched, with lots of first hand interviews. Numerous quotes by fellow service men, as well as Zamperini, who the author spoke with many times. Louie was a remarkable man, a survivor in every sense of the word. He, as did many if not all, veterans struggled to adjust to life back in the states, having war time experiences many could never grasp or fully understand. But he managed to overcome his personal demons, turn his years of being a POW into a story people wanted to hear. He spent many years traveling, telling audiences the story of his amazing life.
third trip...
... to Virginia in recent weeks. I am so thankful the first of the series of trips was early in December when I invited myself to visit. Enjoyed spending a couple of days with my brother and wife at home, though the weather was not fun. Freezing temps. and snowy, icy roads. We even saw the energetic grandchildren, running in circles around the house. Glad I had the opportunity to go and stay while things were peaceful, and before their lives began to fall apart after she insisted he must go to the doctor. He had been having uncharacteristic headaches, struggling to remember things he should know, erratic driving on occasion.
My brother is still in the hospital, but has been moved from Intensive Care Unit to an area that cares from neuroscience patients. He has graduated to eating real food, consuming everything they will give him to drink, and disconnected from IV. Not attached to any tubes or wiring other than a heart monitor that makes an ungodly sound every time he changes position in the chair they have him sitting in. Even the most comfortable recliner in the world would get tiresome, butt-wearing after sitting all day long.
Daughter and I went to Richmond on Friday morning and returned to Atlanta on Sunday night. Spent most of the weekend sitting with them in the hospital room. His wife is likely exhausted, having lived at the hospital with him for two weeks while he has been there, recovering from surgery. The doctor has been off and will not be back until tomorrow, but she is hoping he will come in and tell them what will happen next on Tuesday. I know it has been exhausting for her over these trying days and hope they might get some good news when the surgeon will come by and see them on the morrow.
My brother is still in the hospital, but has been moved from Intensive Care Unit to an area that cares from neuroscience patients. He has graduated to eating real food, consuming everything they will give him to drink, and disconnected from IV. Not attached to any tubes or wiring other than a heart monitor that makes an ungodly sound every time he changes position in the chair they have him sitting in. Even the most comfortable recliner in the world would get tiresome, butt-wearing after sitting all day long.
Daughter and I went to Richmond on Friday morning and returned to Atlanta on Sunday night. Spent most of the weekend sitting with them in the hospital room. His wife is likely exhausted, having lived at the hospital with him for two weeks while he has been there, recovering from surgery. The doctor has been off and will not be back until tomorrow, but she is hoping he will come in and tell them what will happen next on Tuesday. I know it has been exhausting for her over these trying days and hope they might get some good news when the surgeon will come by and see them on the morrow.
sounds just like...
... what I have learned to expect over the years. The Man Who Lives Here reported that he has purchased himself a truck. Which I find both surprising and not. He has been muttering and mumbling for some time about wanting to have a different vehicle. Apparently it has been going on long enough that he has talked himself into making a commitment to five years worth of obligation on a loan. It likely did not require much in the way of talking to convince himself he was making the purchase.
For some years now, due to declining abilities, he has been dependent on a motorized chair to get where he wants to be. All this time, the chair has been transported by a motorized lift mounted on the back of a large GMC Acadia he has been driving. Which makes it convenient to take the chair where ever he wants to go: easily delivering his ground transport to the Infantry Museum on the days he serves as a volunteer, to doctor's appointments as needed, church on Sunday morning.
But also leaves the upholstered chair and wiring exposed to the elements as it is traveling in any type weather at the rear of his truck. There is a waterproof cover, that requires several bungee cords to make it secure as he is on the road. But someone who always worries about things, will always worry about safety, security, etc, and this is a guy who is in constant 'worry mode'. Recently he has had to have work done on the hitch/mount attached to the frame of his vehicle that keeps the lift securely attached to the body of the SUV.
I know his desire is to have the motorized chair enclosed, safely secured out of the weather. In the ongoing muttering, there has been mention of a van that would have a lift built-in so he would be able to load and unload without being in the rain. Apparently The Man has concluded the best solution is to own a brand new pickup truck with a cover over the truck bed that will protect his wheeled chair. There will need to be some assistance to get the chair from the parking lot/driveway into the bed of truck, so there will be some mechanical additions, motorized winch to raise and lower a very heavy chair.
He came home today driving a brand-spanking-new Chevrolet Silverado pick up. I would be completely undone at the prospect of five years of payments. So I will just be glad he got what he wanted.
For some years now, due to declining abilities, he has been dependent on a motorized chair to get where he wants to be. All this time, the chair has been transported by a motorized lift mounted on the back of a large GMC Acadia he has been driving. Which makes it convenient to take the chair where ever he wants to go: easily delivering his ground transport to the Infantry Museum on the days he serves as a volunteer, to doctor's appointments as needed, church on Sunday morning.
But also leaves the upholstered chair and wiring exposed to the elements as it is traveling in any type weather at the rear of his truck. There is a waterproof cover, that requires several bungee cords to make it secure as he is on the road. But someone who always worries about things, will always worry about safety, security, etc, and this is a guy who is in constant 'worry mode'. Recently he has had to have work done on the hitch/mount attached to the frame of his vehicle that keeps the lift securely attached to the body of the SUV.
I know his desire is to have the motorized chair enclosed, safely secured out of the weather. In the ongoing muttering, there has been mention of a van that would have a lift built-in so he would be able to load and unload without being in the rain. Apparently The Man has concluded the best solution is to own a brand new pickup truck with a cover over the truck bed that will protect his wheeled chair. There will need to be some assistance to get the chair from the parking lot/driveway into the bed of truck, so there will be some mechanical additions, motorized winch to raise and lower a very heavy chair.
He came home today driving a brand-spanking-new Chevrolet Silverado pick up. I would be completely undone at the prospect of five years of payments. So I will just be glad he got what he wanted.
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
you might recall...
... hearing me say: 'I can eat things that have been stored in the 'fridge that would put anyone else in my family in the hospital'. Up until recently I was absolutely convinced of the truth of that statement. There is always something in there that needs to be put in the trash - and I have no hesitation about depositing mystery items in the garbage. I am pretty good about using a sharpie and masking tape to identify anything that goes in - writing the name and date on each container for reference. Especially not allowing The Man Who Lives Here to ingest items that are in the 'if-fy' range: he has enough health issues without consuming risky foods. But I have long held the belief that I could eat things that would create major gastrointestinal distress in others.
I am ready to admit consuming something I should have not put in my mouth: I was having cereal for breakfast recently, and added milk. I knew the milk was old, having just looked at the date on the carton the day before. But did not hesitate to pour the last little bit in my bowl. A short while later, when I began to feel sort of urpy, I thought to myself: that milk was from Last Year. I spent several hours feeling poorly, but eventually got over the sensation of wishing I could get rid of the suspect dairy product. Meaning that no long term damage was done, plus I will be a bit more cautious in the future.
What I ate last night: Chinese food that was left over from going out on Christmas Day night. The family was gone, heading home, so I suggested we would go to the local Chinese restaurant. There was far too much on my plate, so half of it came home to go in the 'fridge. I sort of forgot about it, until yesterday. Decided I should give it a try before it got any older, lingering around from last year. Sadly, it was not nearly as good as when it was served to me, hot from the kitchen of Chef Lee's establishment. But edible, though I did not eat it all.
I'm not dead yet.
I am ready to admit consuming something I should have not put in my mouth: I was having cereal for breakfast recently, and added milk. I knew the milk was old, having just looked at the date on the carton the day before. But did not hesitate to pour the last little bit in my bowl. A short while later, when I began to feel sort of urpy, I thought to myself: that milk was from Last Year. I spent several hours feeling poorly, but eventually got over the sensation of wishing I could get rid of the suspect dairy product. Meaning that no long term damage was done, plus I will be a bit more cautious in the future.
What I ate last night: Chinese food that was left over from going out on Christmas Day night. The family was gone, heading home, so I suggested we would go to the local Chinese restaurant. There was far too much on my plate, so half of it came home to go in the 'fridge. I sort of forgot about it, until yesterday. Decided I should give it a try before it got any older, lingering around from last year. Sadly, it was not nearly as good as when it was served to me, hot from the kitchen of Chef Lee's establishment. But edible, though I did not eat it all.
I'm not dead yet.
Saturday, January 6, 2018
creepy crawly...
... invasion. An army of ants. In the cupboards, on the counter tops, running amok. I did not want to spray: it's greasy, deadly, poisonous. But I did want to get rid of the ants. Which is really unlikely, as I am convinced they are living in the walls of the house! Got any ideas? I sure don't, but still want them to go away. I can by-and-large live in harmony with small creatures, and don't go out of my way to stomp on bugs. They serve a purpose, and other than the big fat nasty grasshoppers I will chase across the yard to smoosh, I usually don't alter the food chain.
Several years ago, when it got really cold, there were some wee black ones swarming in around the sink in the kitchen. I bought the little plastic traps filled with some sticky substance, placing them strategically around areas where I saw the problem, to replace when they are filled with corpses. The invaders eventually disappeared.
I was not fooled. Not in the least. I knew they were still there: settling in, getting comfortable, building a high-rise behind the sheet rock, between the studs. The colony has had lots of time to grow. I can envision a huge nest, reaching deep into the soil, like the things you see on wildlife shows - those gi-normous ant mounds on the African savanna, bigger than a house. Maybe reaching to the other side of the planet, impervious to the heat the science textbooks report at the core of the earth.
When I came in a week ago, they were all over the stove where someone had left a piece of waxed paper after covering food in the microwave. I cleaned that up, but knew we needed to call for pest control service. The guy came and poked around, sprayed, chatted a while and left. Pretty obvious he treated the visible 'symptoms' and made no effort to get to the root of the problem. Because when he came back, very chatty and sprayed yesterday there were many more than I saw last week. Swarming all in the cupboards, having a party in the peanut butter jar, which they apparently find very enticing.
Interesting tidbit: the pest control guy asked if I had Windex. So I handed over the squirt bottle and he sprayed in the cupboard where the peanut butter lives, saying ammonia will kill them. Of course there were ten thousand little ant bodies left for me to clean up, which I did before replacing items back on the shelf. I know they are still in there, lurking. The Pest guy even said they could be under the slab, keeping warm and dry. Argghhhh...
Friday, January 5, 2018
what's old is new...
... sounds sort of cryptic, but only means the resolution I found so enjoyable last year has been recycled. I had thought early on, back when we were just trying on 2017 for size, to see how it might suit, that I would not make any. Especially since I had failed with the ones from the previous year - trying to decide if I should give another go on those unsuccessful but well intended plans. Or just not bother at all rather than feel like a hopeless mess.
Then I came up with a brilliant plan that was guaranteed to provide excellent results. Feel free to appropriate my grand scheme if you think it might suit your purposes as well. Here is the proposal: Tell all the people you would love to spend more time with you are going to have lunch together. Explain your desire to have lunch at least once a week with someone who makes you laugh. We all have (or should have) lots of people in our lives that we don't see often enough, and keep thinking we should make time in our busy lives to sit and chat over tea, lunch, desserts. Make a date to go to Panera.
I actually kept a record over the year, making a note in the margin of my monthly calendar, from week to week as I had time with entertaining friends and family, people who bring joy just by their presence. Nearly every week of my soon to be tucked away 2017 has someone (or several) that I was deliberate about seeing. Where does not matter, just devoting the time. Be intentional in searching out sources of good endorphins, make an effort to be in the presence of people who bring you joy.
Then I came up with a brilliant plan that was guaranteed to provide excellent results. Feel free to appropriate my grand scheme if you think it might suit your purposes as well. Here is the proposal: Tell all the people you would love to spend more time with you are going to have lunch together. Explain your desire to have lunch at least once a week with someone who makes you laugh. We all have (or should have) lots of people in our lives that we don't see often enough, and keep thinking we should make time in our busy lives to sit and chat over tea, lunch, desserts. Make a date to go to Panera.
I actually kept a record over the year, making a note in the margin of my monthly calendar, from week to week as I had time with entertaining friends and family, people who bring joy just by their presence. Nearly every week of my soon to be tucked away 2017 has someone (or several) that I was deliberate about seeing. Where does not matter, just devoting the time. Be intentional in searching out sources of good endorphins, make an effort to be in the presence of people who bring you joy.
Thursday, January 4, 2018
book review: "Rogue Heroes"...
... author is Ben Macintyre, on the staff of the London Times, published in 2016. I had requested it from the library, knowing it had something to do with WW II and activities in Europe. It went with me when I was traveling this week, even though it is a large, hardback book. When planning to be hauling my clothing around with me, I usually make an effort to stock up on paperbacks, that can be donated or left in the seat pocket on an airplane.
Though I did not remember where the reference came from, or what piqued my attention to make me interested enough to request the book, it was well worth reading. If you are even slightly interested in history of that period, or have a desire to know more about the war in the European theater, you will be fascinated reading this. A very well researched and documented history of the precursor to Special Forces, Green Berets and Seal Teams. The author read many journals, diaries as well as a vast amount of military paperwork, recently declassified, and searched out survivors to conduct first person interviews with some of the individuals involved.
The subtitle on the cover lets the reader know it is "The history of the SAS" and describes the orgins of 'Britian's Secret Special Forces that sabotaged the Nazis and changed the nature of war'. A quote from the middle of the nearly four hundred pages:
"Traditional warfare tends to follow straight lines: advances, retreats, fields of fire, front lines, vanguards, rear guards and points of engagement. The SAS was pioneering a new sort of war, so asymmetrical as to be almost lopsided. Increasingly confident in their tactics and terrain, the independent jeep units selected targets as they appeared, with little deliberate planning. This was war on the hoof, invented ad hoc, unpredictable, highly effective and often chaotic."
These desert pirates were not popular with the chain of command, and tended to buck the system at every opportunity, with their attire, mannerisms, and attitudes. But they were very successful at what they did, point men, behind enemy lines, masters of hit and run missions, joyfully sabotaging German and Italian aircraft, ammo dumps and fuel convoys. They did some parachuting, but most often traveled by jeep over great distances in harsh desert conditions.
As I began to read the book, I realized that there was a series on TV years ago, based on these characters, glorifying their methods and missions in opposing the forces of German General Rommel and the Afrika Korps. My brother loved that show: lots of jeeps driving a break-neck up hundred fot high sand dunes and flying of the top, machine guns blasting away at the bad guys. I thought of him constantly as I read the book.
When I got to the last chapter, I put the book down and did not finish it. When we got to the place where some of the SAS men entered Germany ahead of Allied forces and discovered Bergen Belsen camp, I had to quit reading. It was a very interesting, revealing book that I would highly recommend for anyone interested in the military history.
Though I did not remember where the reference came from, or what piqued my attention to make me interested enough to request the book, it was well worth reading. If you are even slightly interested in history of that period, or have a desire to know more about the war in the European theater, you will be fascinated reading this. A very well researched and documented history of the precursor to Special Forces, Green Berets and Seal Teams. The author read many journals, diaries as well as a vast amount of military paperwork, recently declassified, and searched out survivors to conduct first person interviews with some of the individuals involved.
The subtitle on the cover lets the reader know it is "The history of the SAS" and describes the orgins of 'Britian's Secret Special Forces that sabotaged the Nazis and changed the nature of war'. A quote from the middle of the nearly four hundred pages:
"Traditional warfare tends to follow straight lines: advances, retreats, fields of fire, front lines, vanguards, rear guards and points of engagement. The SAS was pioneering a new sort of war, so asymmetrical as to be almost lopsided. Increasingly confident in their tactics and terrain, the independent jeep units selected targets as they appeared, with little deliberate planning. This was war on the hoof, invented ad hoc, unpredictable, highly effective and often chaotic."
These desert pirates were not popular with the chain of command, and tended to buck the system at every opportunity, with their attire, mannerisms, and attitudes. But they were very successful at what they did, point men, behind enemy lines, masters of hit and run missions, joyfully sabotaging German and Italian aircraft, ammo dumps and fuel convoys. They did some parachuting, but most often traveled by jeep over great distances in harsh desert conditions.
As I began to read the book, I realized that there was a series on TV years ago, based on these characters, glorifying their methods and missions in opposing the forces of German General Rommel and the Afrika Korps. My brother loved that show: lots of jeeps driving a break-neck up hundred fot high sand dunes and flying of the top, machine guns blasting away at the bad guys. I thought of him constantly as I read the book.
When I got to the last chapter, I put the book down and did not finish it. When we got to the place where some of the SAS men entered Germany ahead of Allied forces and discovered Bergen Belsen camp, I had to quit reading. It was a very interesting, revealing book that I would highly recommend for anyone interested in the military history.
about my brother...
... though there is not much to report, we continue to have hope. I told them before we left the ICU waiting area on Wed. evening: you have to be optimistic, and hope for the best, but season that with a pinch of realism. When we left Virginia last night, there was no new news. The surgeon had not come back around to check on him and give an update, so our hearts were still hanging on to the positivity we were diligently practicing.
Everything you can think about opening up the bones that keep your gray matter in place is scary. The idea of putting your loved ones' life and sensibilities into the hands of a complete stranger will always be anxiety inducing. You have to have a lot of trust in order to accept a diagnosis and agree to the options they recommend for resolution. Humans are human, imperfect, fallible. It is a frightening prospect to turn a husband, father over to the medical personnel - see them wheeled away and disappear through the swinging doors...
The medical staff were instructed to do scans of his head overnight, to have images for radiology to interpret, provide updated info. when the surgeon comes for early morning rounds. There was concern he might have had a stroke during surgery, but that apparently did not occur. I missed hearing the report first hand on Wednesday morning, but continue to hope for improvement. Wednesday morning, was weaned off sedatives that induced a sort coma, to keep him immobile. Then taken off respirator, so he is, I think, breathing on his own. Slowly coming around...
It is safe to assume the process would have been the same today, with scans done in the wee hours, images read and report ready for surgeon on arrival. Ironic to think that the patient is sleeping much better than his anxious family, camping out on hard couches in ICU waiting area. It takes days for all the anesthesia to get out of your system, longer if you are not active, moving around to increase blood circulation. After such a risky surgery, they knew to expect to he would be in ICU for several days, to be closely monitored and easily accessible if urgent care was needed.
Everything you can think about opening up the bones that keep your gray matter in place is scary. The idea of putting your loved ones' life and sensibilities into the hands of a complete stranger will always be anxiety inducing. You have to have a lot of trust in order to accept a diagnosis and agree to the options they recommend for resolution. Humans are human, imperfect, fallible. It is a frightening prospect to turn a husband, father over to the medical personnel - see them wheeled away and disappear through the swinging doors...
The medical staff were instructed to do scans of his head overnight, to have images for radiology to interpret, provide updated info. when the surgeon comes for early morning rounds. There was concern he might have had a stroke during surgery, but that apparently did not occur. I missed hearing the report first hand on Wednesday morning, but continue to hope for improvement. Wednesday morning, was weaned off sedatives that induced a sort coma, to keep him immobile. Then taken off respirator, so he is, I think, breathing on his own. Slowly coming around...
It is safe to assume the process would have been the same today, with scans done in the wee hours, images read and report ready for surgeon on arrival. Ironic to think that the patient is sleeping much better than his anxious family, camping out on hard couches in ICU waiting area. It takes days for all the anesthesia to get out of your system, longer if you are not active, moving around to increase blood circulation. After such a risky surgery, they knew to expect to he would be in ICU for several days, to be closely monitored and easily accessible if urgent care was needed.
back in the deep....
...freeze of the deep south. Thankful for a safe trip and return to the routine chaos of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport shortly after midnight. Various and sundry delays that resulted in us arriving on the downside of the analog timepiece to bring us into Atlanta on Thursday instead of Wed., but all in one piece. Odd, unlikely events as in: arriving at the mid point in Charlotte where the pilot reported he had 'good news and bad news.' Explaining we had arrived a bit early from the point of origin in Richmond, but we had no place to park, no crew to provide exit of the aircraft.
It all worked out, though we had to leave the comfort of our warm cocoon to freezing out door temperatures. Clamber down creaky steps onto the tarmac and shuffle across the apron gritty with coarse salt, to the open door of the terminal. It's been so long since I saw actual steps on wheels, outside of old black and white movies, I had to laugh as we tottered down to return to earth, hanging onto the insufficient wobbly handrail in the dark. Charlotte terminal has concourses that are similar to what we have come to expect, but this particular one was obviously older, at ground level, up a short ramp or three steps into the building. Reminiscent of airports of fifty years ago, when you could walk your departing friends out to the open door of the plane and wave goodbye, when you saw their smiling faces through the porthole as they settled into their assigned seat.
If that stopover had not been on the itinerary the usual flight time from RIC to ATL is about ninety minutes. This one, requiring a stroll from on end of the terminal to the other, plus a generous wait time, took over four hours. Hundreds milling about or hovering over electronic devices, crying children, antsy adolescents, yapping dogs in mesh carriers, groups of young soldiers in camo., hundreds of travelers with cancelled or delayed flights, made this stop-over airport seem much like Atlanta.
Having never been in that airport, it was remarkably similar to others everywhere I have traveled in my limited experience. But also different: I recall reading someplace that there are rocking chairs for travelers to stop and sit, rest and slow their harried pace. A long row of white wooden rocking chairs that makes you think about the front porch of Cracker Barrel restaurants. With the addition of a number of 'shade trees' that really do give a sense of a slower time and place, visit to grandmas, where you could sit with a cool glass of lemonade and slow your mind.
It all worked out, though we had to leave the comfort of our warm cocoon to freezing out door temperatures. Clamber down creaky steps onto the tarmac and shuffle across the apron gritty with coarse salt, to the open door of the terminal. It's been so long since I saw actual steps on wheels, outside of old black and white movies, I had to laugh as we tottered down to return to earth, hanging onto the insufficient wobbly handrail in the dark. Charlotte terminal has concourses that are similar to what we have come to expect, but this particular one was obviously older, at ground level, up a short ramp or three steps into the building. Reminiscent of airports of fifty years ago, when you could walk your departing friends out to the open door of the plane and wave goodbye, when you saw their smiling faces through the porthole as they settled into their assigned seat.
If that stopover had not been on the itinerary the usual flight time from RIC to ATL is about ninety minutes. This one, requiring a stroll from on end of the terminal to the other, plus a generous wait time, took over four hours. Hundreds milling about or hovering over electronic devices, crying children, antsy adolescents, yapping dogs in mesh carriers, groups of young soldiers in camo., hundreds of travelers with cancelled or delayed flights, made this stop-over airport seem much like Atlanta.
Having never been in that airport, it was remarkably similar to others everywhere I have traveled in my limited experience. But also different: I recall reading someplace that there are rocking chairs for travelers to stop and sit, rest and slow their harried pace. A long row of white wooden rocking chairs that makes you think about the front porch of Cracker Barrel restaurants. With the addition of a number of 'shade trees' that really do give a sense of a slower time and place, visit to grandmas, where you could sit with a cool glass of lemonade and slow your mind.
Monday, January 1, 2018
up early...
... to travel, heading to the Atlanta airport for a quick, unexpected trip to VA. After my brother called over the weekend to report anticipated surgery, it seemed like a good plan to go for a quick one-day visit. I woke up too early the morning after his call, and began plotting. Thinking I could get to Atlanta, take the next flight to Richmond and just stop by for some conversation and reminiscing.
As you have read on the exterior mirror on the passenger side door: 'Things are much more complicated than they seem..Or was it: 'Objects are closer than they appear?' At any rate - you cannot just show up at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport and ask them to get you to VA. In my limited experience of today, you must first roll the dice, move your chosen marker on the game board, and fly to Philadelphia. I can longer say I have never been to Philly, even if all I saw was the inside of the air terminal and snow on the ground through the windows..
When we walked from one end of the terminal to the other (Murphy's Law - where you are is as far as possible from where you need to be) we had time to spare while awaiting the flight from Phil. to RIC. Stopped at the food court to get a bite before the hop from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Even though it is far from my idea of breakfast food, I suggested getting a Philly cheese-steak sandwich. Reluctant to admit having been to the 'Home of the Cheese-steak' and not sampled the drippy greasy mess right from the source. Better judgment prevailed, so we had bagels instead.
As you have read on the exterior mirror on the passenger side door: 'Things are much more complicated than they seem..Or was it: 'Objects are closer than they appear?' At any rate - you cannot just show up at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport and ask them to get you to VA. In my limited experience of today, you must first roll the dice, move your chosen marker on the game board, and fly to Philadelphia. I can longer say I have never been to Philly, even if all I saw was the inside of the air terminal and snow on the ground through the windows..
When we walked from one end of the terminal to the other (Murphy's Law - where you are is as far as possible from where you need to be) we had time to spare while awaiting the flight from Phil. to RIC. Stopped at the food court to get a bite before the hop from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Even though it is far from my idea of breakfast food, I suggested getting a Philly cheese-steak sandwich. Reluctant to admit having been to the 'Home of the Cheese-steak' and not sampled the drippy greasy mess right from the source. Better judgment prevailed, so we had bagels instead.
back to work...
... was a sort of test, to determine whether my hand is really ready to return to being employed. Even though the schedule has had me on the job one day a week, it really has not be the type work I have been doing before the arm got broke and I became disabled. After the injury and long dull recovery, these intervening weeks since mid-October have consisted of standing around, looking smiley, offering samples to passersby. Thankful for the continued employment, even though the assignment was profoundly tedious.
I put in a two days last week, while my co-worker used up the last of his vacation days before the year came to a wobbly end. Doing the clean up and fluffing after Christmas, putting weary bedraggled poinsettias in the trash, getting rid of all signs of holiday/seasonal decorations. Then starting afresh, prepping and putting out new bouquets of cut flowers, beautifully blooming orchids and other plants shipped from the warehouse.
I am still trying to be careful and cautious with my newly reinforced parts. Wary of re-injury, not doing any of that 'pushing, pulling, lifting' the doctor's instructions cautioned about. While diligently doing the flexibility and strengthening exercises my rehab. encourages to regain full use and mobility. After those days following Christmas when I volunteered myself to tend to the floral area, I decided I might possibly be ready to get back in the groove.
Sunday was the test. I think I did pretty well. There were a couple of things I needed help with, that I just did not have the hand strength/grip to accomplish: opening a jar of green stuffed olives for salad. Otherwise mostly able to do everything necessary to return to full employment, even though it is only part time. I don't pick up heavy boxes, so there will continue to be some limitations. Otherwise I think I am ready.
I put in a two days last week, while my co-worker used up the last of his vacation days before the year came to a wobbly end. Doing the clean up and fluffing after Christmas, putting weary bedraggled poinsettias in the trash, getting rid of all signs of holiday/seasonal decorations. Then starting afresh, prepping and putting out new bouquets of cut flowers, beautifully blooming orchids and other plants shipped from the warehouse.
I am still trying to be careful and cautious with my newly reinforced parts. Wary of re-injury, not doing any of that 'pushing, pulling, lifting' the doctor's instructions cautioned about. While diligently doing the flexibility and strengthening exercises my rehab. encourages to regain full use and mobility. After those days following Christmas when I volunteered myself to tend to the floral area, I decided I might possibly be ready to get back in the groove.
Sunday was the test. I think I did pretty well. There were a couple of things I needed help with, that I just did not have the hand strength/grip to accomplish: opening a jar of green stuffed olives for salad. Otherwise mostly able to do everything necessary to return to full employment, even though it is only part time. I don't pick up heavy boxes, so there will continue to be some limitations. Otherwise I think I am ready.
looking at the...
... calendar, sending greetings from 2018. Well, here we are. I heard the firework snap, crackle popping around midnight after going to bed too early. Laid awake for a time listening to distant celebrations, before going back to sleep. Drifting off with the thought that the flashes and bangs, explosions were merely people who had more money than sense, willing to fork it over to buy stuff they would set on fire. Not the smartest way to spend hard earned cash, but ....
Thankful that hearing those distant bangs and whooshes did not cause anxiety or fear. No need to worry about mortars, incoming missiles, dangerous situations that would affect safety. I know there are many places on our planet that being awakened by the sound of explosions means you grab your children and dash off to someplace hidden, hoping to keep the family alive. Living in constant fear, always wondering how long you will have to be on guard, trying to keep your loved ones safe.
Thankful for living in America. Where you can go where you want, when you want, without asking permission or having to provide documentation that approves of your travel plans. All those taken- for-granted things guaranteed by the Constitution: assured by our founding fathers who were remarkably far-sighted in their wisdom.
Thankful for potable water, electricity, the astounding conveniences of modern appliances that make the daily chores of life routine and easy to manage. Think about what you would be doing without a refrigerator in your house, or stove/oven. What your life would be like if you did not have a machine that washes your clothing? Consider how you would spent your days if you had to cut down trees and chop for firewood to heat your home, as well as heat water for daily needs like washing and cooking? Yes. Very thankful for those things we rarely consider until it is time to call the repair guy.
And especially thankful for family and friends.
Thankful that hearing those distant bangs and whooshes did not cause anxiety or fear. No need to worry about mortars, incoming missiles, dangerous situations that would affect safety. I know there are many places on our planet that being awakened by the sound of explosions means you grab your children and dash off to someplace hidden, hoping to keep the family alive. Living in constant fear, always wondering how long you will have to be on guard, trying to keep your loved ones safe.
Thankful for living in America. Where you can go where you want, when you want, without asking permission or having to provide documentation that approves of your travel plans. All those taken- for-granted things guaranteed by the Constitution: assured by our founding fathers who were remarkably far-sighted in their wisdom.
Thankful for potable water, electricity, the astounding conveniences of modern appliances that make the daily chores of life routine and easy to manage. Think about what you would be doing without a refrigerator in your house, or stove/oven. What your life would be like if you did not have a machine that washes your clothing? Consider how you would spent your days if you had to cut down trees and chop for firewood to heat your home, as well as heat water for daily needs like washing and cooking? Yes. Very thankful for those things we rarely consider until it is time to call the repair guy.
And especially thankful for family and friends.
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