book review: "The Seven Rules of Elvira Carr"...

... by Frances Maynard. Published in 2017 by Sourcebooks, Landmark. Picked at random from the shelf at my branch library. I kept thinking as I read that it must be one of those Young Adult volumes I picked up by accident, but nothing on the spine proved that to be true.

It was never specifically stated in the wording, but after reading well into the story, I concluded the main character, Elvira, must have some learning disability. At the end of the book, in a short blurb about the author on the last page, there was mention the author is a part time teacher of adults with Aspergers or other disorders.The story as it unfolds, does not mention this, but the habits and thoughts of Ellie demonstrate a different perspective, a skewed way of interpreting daily conversations, information, her life in general. Leading the reader to realize she struggles to process everything with a brain that is wired a bit different from the general population.

Ellie lives in a small house with her mother, as her dad was deceased. Ellie's mom is a bitter, argumentative, disagreeable person, who constantly criticizes and demeans her daughter. Knowing that the young adult has problems with language, understanding meanings of conversation, taking every word literally. Reminding me of the children's books written about a nanny: Amelia Bedelia, who would interpret every thing she heard in the literal sense, making for hilarious tales in literature. But trying to function in society with that handicap would be maddening as well as confusing.

Ellie's mom has a stroke, is placed in a care facility, leaving Ellie to fend for herself. With the assistance of a neighbor, new friends she begins to discover she can handle her life and becomes capable and independent. Her mom dies, leaving a trust fund that will provide support, and allow Ellie to continue to live in her comfortable home, surrounded by family furniture and history.

She soon discovers she has a heretofore unknown half-brother, a product of her father's philandering ways. She begins to email, then call, then meet this young man, several years younger than herself. The way she literally interprets all conversations and language are often amusing to read, but would understandably be very difficult for someone who is struggling to fit in, find her place in the world.
Her new-found brother works with her to piece together what they can discover of their dad's roaming, his other family and how he was deceitful, scheming and a hopeless liar. The dad served time for several crimes the two siblings discovered as they researched his history - even the name they knew him by was fictitious.

Here are Elvira's rules, often referred to in the book. They were made up by her, and used as a prompt throughout the story to help guide her as she faced unexpected, difficult or confusing situations:
1. Being polite and respectful is always good.
2. If you look or sound different, you won't fit in.
3. Conversation doesn't just exchange facts - it conveys how you're feeling.
4. You learn by making mistakes.
5. Not everyone who is nice to me is my friend.
6. It's better to be too diplomatic than too honest.
7. Rules change depending on the situation and the person you are speaking to.

 And the one she added as she gradually became an independent capable adult discovering she could manage life on her own. Which is Rule 8: Use the rules to help with difficulties, to make life easier to understand what's acceptable to enhance your strengths, but after that, do things your way.

The list, printed at the end of the book, reminds me of the poster you often see in elementary classrooms with 'guidelines for life' by the author Robert Fulghum. He devised a thoughtful, considered list of all the things we should have been taught as we began our formal education in Kindergarten. Where we learned (and likely forgot when our brains began to accumulate too many other facts unrelated to patience and compassion) a number of basic principles of cooperative living.

cannot recall...

... the specifics, therefore I am unable to report who said it or what they were talking about when I wrote down a snippet of conversation I heard on public radio. But it is so true, and struck such a deep chord in me, knowing my past and the generations of corseted, hat-and-glove wearing, prim-and- proper women who tried their best to instill some behavior in me, I said: Wow. All those women - properly raised themselves in the grandest Southern tradition, who gave it their all in an effort to civilize the child who ran barefoot through the woods, splashing in the creek, climbing trees- did have an impact. They are remembered often and fondly as the forebears who made me who I am.

In addition to attempting to get me to wear skirts with the proper foundations (slippery slips) and the curse of miserably hot and sticky hosiery, comb my hair and sit up straight: they also instilled the distressing way of life that was forced upon them by a male dominated society. The culture, when my grandmothers were growing up, when my mother and her sisters were growing up, and when I was a child expected that women should be "socialized to be compromising and accommodating". We were required to bend, acquiesce, agree to the demands and parameters of a world run by white, Anglo-Saxon white men. The ones who influenced those females who raised me, back in the 'it takes a village' era were  Baptist or Methodist or Presbyterian, so you can add the 'P' to the 'W.A.S._' as well.

I am thankful that our society has begun to change. I am thankful that daughters and young adults can make choices that were not available a century, or a generation ago. Young people, especially capable females, moving from the isolated world of education into the larger world of commerce, job seekers and productive members of society have many options that did not exist twenty or fifty or 100 years ago. That's all I am going to say for now.

it was premature...

... for me to even think of invoking murphey's law so early in the day. In the earlier blog when you read the report on how my morning came un-moored, the events of the day caused me to think that It Has To Get Better. Little did I know it would get worse first, making me believe I should go to bed and cover my head with a pillow to provide a cushion when the ceiling caves in.

I got those things previously mentioned accomplished, and was back at  home by 10 o'clock. Where I fully expected to get some household chores completed before I would need to be at an appointment in town at 11:15. Running the washer and dryer, hanging up shirts and pants, getting things organized, feeling like I was being very productive. Being thankful for the marvel of electricity, the wonderful abundance of potable water on demand. Charmed by the delights of modern conveniences like washers and electric dryers as well as the blessing of financial stability/resources to purchase all the laundry detergent I can use.

I got distracted and let the time get away from me (blogging again, huh?) and realized I had only fifteen  minutes to get out the door and on my way to that commitment. Dashing off to jump into my car, only to discover  the keys to the car were left in the house.  And: the key to the house was on the ring with the car keys. Stuck. Plus the weather man said everyone below the gnat line should plan to stay indoors today. Heat index is through the stratosphere. Me thinking: I would love to go inside and sit there where it is air conditioned, cooled by the wonders of HVAC, but I cannot get in the dang-nab-it door.

I have thought numerous times in recent weeks about where to hide a key outside. A place that is easily accessible but not obvious. Some where near the front door for someone to be able to get in should an emergency arise, but not so apparent that casual passers-by will be able to come in and test all the chairs and beds a-la-Goldilocks. We will put our heads together, me and The Man Who Lives Here (also the guy who is worried about.... everything!/how someone could get in if I am away and he needs help) to figure this out. Do not expect the 'solution' to appear here....

as the saying goes...

... bad things come in threes, right? I've had mine for the day/week/month. It's just after ten a.m. and I am already able to laugh about aggravating things that altered my plans for getting things done: Tires rotated, gas purchased, on my way. All those did not occur as my intentions had outlined on the to-do list I created to get stuff accomplished.

Starting with the offer of going to IHOP for breakfast with The Man Who Lives Here and a friend who he met while volunteering at the Infantry Museum. He and R. go to eat together each Monday morning if both are available. Travel and doctor's appointments occasionally conflict, but if there is nothing else going on, they will be eating together at 7:30 each Monday morning. He asked me to go, but I said I wanted to be first in line at the tire store to get my wheels rotated.

I knew their hours had changed recently, and was (mistakenly) certain the store opened at 7:30, which was why I declined the offer of a free breakfast. Plus I don't like to eat like that: big lumberjack breakfast with meat, eggs, grits, toast, etc. Too much food for me. A bowl of grits is good, but all that other stuff would make me want to go back to bed and give my tummy a rest.

When I got to the tire store, with minutes to spare, it was odd that the place was still dark, and all the roll up doors to service bays were closed. I got out to go look at the sign and discovered that Yes, the hours had changed from early opening at 7 a.m. But not to the time I had programmed into my brain: they open at 8:00, instead of 7:30. Well, rats.

I thought I would just run up the street to wally world and fill my gas tank while I was waiting - just a couple of  miles away. But when I got there, there was only $3.46 on my gift card. At $2.48 a gallon, that won't get me very far. I got about a gallon and a half. Arrgghhh. The store is 'way across the parking lot, and I was not motivated or prepared to make the hike to reload my card to fill up the card to fill up the tank. So I went back to the tire store and got in. With my note cards to write and book to read while the tire guys did their work.

Struggling with: lost breakfast opportunity, mistaken hours at tire store, nearly empty gift card/gas tank. It has all been resolved: I had 110% sugar blueberry pop tart for breakfast while waiting at the tire store, reloaded my gift card and refilled my gas tank. All before 10 a.m. It has to get better: there is only one way to go from here!

book reveiw: "The Pleasure of My Company"...

... written by the well known entertainer Steve Martin. Found as a set of four Cd's at the library and enjoyed while driving to SC and back. A delightful story, wry and off-center as you would expect from a comedian who has the knack of looking at life from an odd-ball vantage point.

The main character, Daniel, is unemployed, living in a small apartment in Santa Monica, spends his days dreaming up encounters with people he sees in his neighborhood but cannot overcome various bizarre habits in order to actually meet and converse with others. His life is so filled with idiosyncrasies he cannot function. There is a specific number of wattage that light bulbs in his home must total: if one blows out, others must be adjusted to regain that precarious balance. He has a big problem with stepping off curbs in order to navigate the neighborhood, and walks blocks out of his way to get to places where there are handicap/curb cus. He had a crush on a real estate agent, attempts to manufacture a 'chance' meeting. He has a crush on the Pharmacist at Rite-Aid, manufacturing reasons to shop at the drug store to gaze upon the object of his affection.

If  you find Martin's brand of comedy amusing, you will be entertained by the short book. The Cd's are read by the author - making it easy to picture his sitting in his darkened apartment attempting to figure out ways he can capture the attention of the real estate agent showing apartments across the street. If you do not think movies like 'Roxanne' with Darryl Hannah and 'The Jerk' hilarious, you need to find something else to read.

"The next morning I decided to touch every corner of every copy machine at Kinkos", but he has such a problem with the inability to step off curbs he has to walk miles out of his way to get to the copy store. Hopelessy neurotic....

book review: "Born on Third Base"...

... written by Chuck Collins, published by Chelsea Green of White River Junction, Vermont in 2016. I had  no knowledge of him before the interview on public radio some months ago, but he has several other books listed, most co-authored with others who have common philosophies or goals. The sub title explains: 'A One Percenter Makes the Case for Tackling Inequality, Bringing Wealth Home and Committing to the Common Good.'

Collins was born into wealth, the great grandson of processed meat producer Oscar Mayer (I was surprised to discover there actually was a Mr. Mayer, thinking he was invented like Betty Crocker.) As a young adult Collins had a number of opportunities to experience life that changed his perspective as a member of the upper-crust of American society. He began to realize how fortunate he was to have the advantages that created his inherited fortune. Then he told his family he wanted to give his inheritance away. After his dad made every effort to persuade him otherwise, the funds were put in a grant-making foundation to give it all away.

Collins toured the country with the father of Bill Gates, meeting people and talking about the necessity for an estate tax on the ultra-wealthy, to fund government programs. One of his books was co-authored with Bill Gates, Sr. Others authors he worked with are mentioned in this book as having an influence on his philosophy, lifestyle and writings. He has met with people nationwide in small groups, explaining and discussing his vision: inequities/advantages given to so many as others are born with disadvantages that are often insurmountable.

Middle class citizens are often provided with benefits, passed along by their parents who were able to take advantage of government loans for home buying, free tuition under the GI bill, start up funds at absurdly low interest rates for businesses, and gifts from well-established relatives. They see themselves as 'self-made', without being aware of the benefits of being born into these circumstances. Otherwise they would struggle throughout life like many minorities who were not fortunate enough to have the family support those baby-boomers did. Even the people across the nation working in agriculture, growing crops or livestock benefit from federal subsidies that have been in place for years. Family farms over many generations have long taken advantage of government support - free grazing of cattle/horses, sheep on public lands, payouts for not growing certain crops. Gifts from the Uncle Sam.

Individiuals we often think of as struggling: small business owners, or farmers are the recipients of government loans or subsidies that give them a leg up. Folks who receive a financial advantage for a lifetime then pass along a legacy to future generations. Whereas minorities/immigrants will often lag behind with jobs/skills and income, unable to set aside savings or invest in home ownership. An endless struggle just to break even, provide for families with minimal resources.

Collins did not specifically say this, as it might not be something he ever considered: but I believe much of the inequity in our culture/society is due to the fact that the US Constitution was written by wealthy, class-conscious white men. They were not deliberately small minded, but just the opposite - desiring to give everyone opportunities to be free from the demands of monarchy, successful, establish a comfortable life (by their standards.) But they were men. White men. Men who were the most influential in the nation, blessed with many advantages simply due to their birth circumstances, the families they were born into as English citizens. Men who would never see females as equals. Men who would always look down upon women, as inferior, second class humans.

Being a 'one percenter' means deliberately ignoring the other ninety-nine. Being aware, but unwilling to see the struggles of those who want to change and improve their lives. Collins currently lives in a neighborhood in Boston, where he has a family, employment, and makes an effort to connect. He tries to help neighbors, friends, small business owners: helping them develop plans and methods to have a small but positive impact on society and their world/environment.

"People who are privileged in our society, for a variety of reasons, don't see the wind at their own back, nor do they see the headwinds that other people encounter. If you're like me, judgments toward others run though your head all the time. Why don't you work harder? Why don't you exercise? Why don't you eat better food? In these hasty judgments I often forget all the privileges that have come my way. From healthy food and suburban open space to enrichment experiences, I had a mammoth boost long before kindergarten. But like most people in my circumstances I somethings forget I was born on third base. It is easy to think I got here on my own." (page 60.)

quick trip...

... to south Carolina today, with a stop at the Quik Trip convenience store in Commerce for my number one addiction: curb store cappuccino.  Then veering off to wally world in search of an interesting/colorful plant to take along. I usually take Homer something blooming: an amaryllis bulb to put in a pot and watch grow at Christmas, geraniums in the spring, lantana that will bloom for months in the summer. Something growing and something good to eat: sweet rolls or pastries.

Going to Greenville to visit my pen-pal, as I try to go once a month to see Homer. He seems to be slowly slowing down, not as energetic or peppy as he has been in the past. But he's also not as young to have the energy to show pep. Left Decatur this morning about six a.m. heading north to I-85. With the plan to be well away from the chaotic bedlam of twelve-lanes-wide traffic by the time everyone who was on the wrong side to town tries to right the problem. Uneventful drive across northeast Georgia and into Carolina.

We had a good visit, including me planting some zinnias he had started with seeds he saved from last year. He had put them in a little rectangular plastic tub, with some good dirt and watered often. They were pretty desperate to be transplanted, having grown so tall they were all flopping over. I asked if he would let me put them in the ground, in a little strip of land between his driveway and chain link fence surrounding the lawn. It is a place where he has planted annuals for several years, including some sunflowers that grew amazingly large heads. Such huge blooms the stalks could not hold the heads up, so heavy and laden with seeds they were all facing down, towards the dirt. He won't have gigantic sunflowers this summer, but I hope at least half of the little zinnia stalks we relocated will survive to give him bright colorful flowers all summer. Attracting bees and butterflies in abundance.

When I started back to Georgia, there was a place where traffic slowed to a crawl. Reminding me of the most awfullest ever experience of trying to get back into the metro after the solar eclipse last August. When it took me ten hours to drive 134 miles, me and everyone else in a two-hundred mile radius. This time, this trip: we slowed to seven miles per hour for about ten miles. Finally getting to the spot where two vehicles were pulled off in the median, both banged up, along with a sheriff's cruiser with blue lights flashing. After that: no other difficulties. Then I noticed about four million cars inching along heading in the other direction, all leaving town, highly frustrated by traffic and profound lack of progress when all they wanted was: Home. Meanwhile, us who had been inching for ten miles finally speeding up, heading back towards the city were able to speed up  again.

I got all the way back into town before the rains came. A frog-strangler timed perfectly for me to be off the road. Probably qualifies as a flash flood, but I was in the house and done with driving before the drenching started.

for many years...

... a volunteer for a local organization with maybe three employees, and a continually changing roster of community supporters who go through a series of classes to learn how to offer support for victims who call the Sexual Assault Hotline. The supporting volunteers are required to take twenty four hours of training before they can be placed on a roster that takes calls day and night, through an answering service. Or go to the hospital when a victim is taken to the ER for an exam and interview with public safety to provide a friendly face, supporting the traumatized victim and provide information to help with understanding of medical and police procedures.

All this to report I had more calls on transferred from the hotline today than I have had since the first of the year. Generally on the calendar for two days each month, taking calls funneled through a commercial service to avoid giving out personal numbers. Responding to people with concerns or interest  dialing the hotline number, patched through to who ever is on call for a twelve hour shift. I usually take two Tuesdays. I might get one call a month during those two twelve hours I am on the list to take calls from people looking for counseling, or information, or support, or wanting to know how to go about reporting an assault.

I got four calls this afternoon in about thirty minutes. Either very lucky or Very Unlucky. Two of the calls were from the same person. She wanted help with going someplace to pick up some personal items, and needed transportation. I knew that funds are available to help victims with travel, so asked her for a phone number -which she refused to give. She said she was homeless, and could not provide a number or location. Meaning she was at the local shelter and did not want anyone to be privy to the address or the number she was calling from. I had to wonder how she expected us to send a taxi if she would not tell anyone where she was or how to get in touch.

Looking back, I am guessing that the need for transportation was only a very small part of the problems she is facing. She offered the number for Aunt Viola, but that failed to work out well enough for the Center to meet her needs. It is a sad situation -  I can't imagine the stress of being homeless, not having a dependably safe spot in your life to call home, even on a temporary basis. Making me really thankful for a house, a home, all the mod.cons. that go with homeownership, electricity, water on demand, HVAC.

you should try...

... this recipe I sort of made up. I readily acknowledge that The Man Who Lives Here is not hard to please - he will eat almost anything I put on the table, has never been hard to please. It has gotten more difficult in recent years to cook for him - because I find it hard to cook for only one person. After many years of feeding the people I grew up knowing, starting as a teen when my mom was guiding my cooking experience, then cooking for little people who eventually turned into adults and now have their own kitchens, I've always prepared food for multiples.

There was a time when I was cooking for a larger crowd on Wednesday nights, when we attended a small church that had fellowship dinners about six months of the year. Beginning when we were paying someone to prepare the meals, a lunchroom worker from the public schools. But over time as the attendance began to decline, income decreased, I became the chief cook and bottle washer, with some degree of assistance from daughters and fellow Presbyterians. Just multiplying the ingredients for recipes I was familiar with that had fed my family over the years to have enough for forty or fifty mouths.

Cooking for one is not easy to master, but I am catching on. I found an interesting recipe for one serving involving pork chops in the Richmond newspaper, but have yet to remember to purchase one chop to prepare. Plus if it is as good as the ingredients make me think, one chop will not be enough for The Guy Who Loves To Eat.

This recipe I am providing is an adaptation of one I read on line as a result of getting too frequent emails from Kraft Foods. It was for a meal you can have ready to put on the table in fifteen minutes. My version is not quite that speedy, as I used plain raw rice rather than the RTU/shelf stable stuff, that comes in a bag ready to micro for thirty seconds and eat.

I think the recipe as I recall called from 2/3 cup of salsa: use the kind you normally buy. We don't eat anything spicy so mine is always mild, but if you like the one with fire, go for it. Add enough chicken stock to make two cups. Or water if you don't have stock on hand. I certainly won't judge you for that. (Remember that the proportions for cooking rice are 2:1 - twice as much liquid as rice, so if you are making for a crowd, just double everything.)  Brown the raw chicken pieces. (I cut a breast into thirds so it would cook quicker - you could leave it whole or cut into thinner slices like 'fingers'.) I added a diced onion and diced green bell pepper - you can or not. After the chicken is browned, add the liquid and rice. Cook till the rice is tender.

The Man Who Lives Here has learned he better say Thank You after he has a home cooked meal. But when he sat down recently to the chicken and rice cooked with salsa, he repeatedly said how good it was. So I did it again tonight. Took a frozen breast out and put it in a bowl of water to thaw for about twenty min., then sliced it into thirds, and put it in the skillet with a little olive oil. Saute the veg., then add liquid and rice. Cover. That's it.

a call from a friend...

... last night after I went to bed, but before nodding off. I think I have to read myself to sleep, and will always have some printed matter in  my hand when I am hopeful of catching some zzz. On the couch, or in the car (when Not Driving) or putting myself to bed much too early at night. When I know I have to be at work at 5 a.m., I set the alarm for four to be semi-civil by the time I get there.

My phone rang at about 9:45 last night: surprising that I had not crashed, but I will admit to a power nap when I got off work shortly after 2:00. I jumped up to answer the call. It was a friend who lives out in the country, in a very rural area east of town. She and I became acquainted when I started talking to her as she was shopping, a customer in the store where I work. We've met several times at a local eatery and had lunch and a most agreeable visit. Plus she invited me to come to her house out in the piney woods once, for lunch with her mom who lives nearby, still independent and spry at 93.

J. was calling me because she had spent the day with her mom in the local ER. A tedious and brutally frustrating experience for healthy people, so doubly so for anyone with medical problems seeking assistance. Her mom was having a hard time breathing, and struggling so to the point of exhaustion, she knew help was needed.  After being at the ER all day on a weekend, probably surrounded by people who use that resource for primary care, the mom was admitted as a patient. Likely poked and prodded with multiple needles wanting numerous blood samples until she felt like she was completely drained dry.

J.  wanted to go home at some point today and was unwilling to leave her 97-year-old mom alone for the time it would take to get some chores done. Her own set of health difficulties create the necessity for maintenance and routine care, something that needs to be addressed every day. Plus she cannot drive, so has to wait for her husband to get her where she needs to be. She asked me if I could come and sit with her mom, to give them an opportunity to drive about an hour to get home out in the hinterlands, do the necessary chores and get back into town. I had no plans for today  - other than the profoundly unpleasant, undesirable chore of hiding all the stuff in the carport to be ready for the painters on the morrow - which I would have been delighted to avoid entirely.

So I spent my afternoon talking to J's mom, reading while she napped, helping her to the facilities, cutting up her pork chop at dinner, and raiding the vending machines. I took my computer, but lack the necessary tech. skills to get connected with the universe, so nearly finished my library book. I was a bit concerned that I might exhaust my limited supply of reading material and be forced to resort to back issues of trashy People magazine from 1998. Fortunately - that did not happen, and I was relieved of my responsibility around 6 p.m.

They came in looking refreshed - as a shower and a good meal can do. And hopefully a bit better prepared to spend another night in the most uncomfortable chair in the world, but at least with a toothbrush. I hope this venture will have a good outcome, and they will soon all be back at home in their country lives.

it will be great ...

... such a good idea when it is completed, but just thinking of what it takes to get from here to there gives me headache. I am dreading it so much, you can see I am typing, for all the world to see instead of putting into action. Someone thought it necessary to get the inside of the carport painted, and has put effort into making that a reality. Of course, The Man Who Lives Here is not actually doing it himself. But he is willing to pay someone to get it accomplished: called contractors to come/look, provide estimates, and expects the work will start tomorrow.

Well, 'Fine For Him' is what I am thinking. All he has to do is observe, be a Sidewalk Supervisor - plus of course, write the check when the work is finished. I am the one who is delegated to move all that stuff. Boxes of old shoes to recycle and Buckets for storing home-made potting soil. Wheel barrow, shovels, rakes. Ladders and Crates. Flotsam and Jetsam. Garbage cans and Recycling Bins. Banker's Boxes full of ancient tax documents and Baskets full of potential Girl Scout projects. More boxes full of collectibles and memorabilia from parents and Crates of ancient hand tools from my granddad, crusted with rust but still workable for the original purpose.

We all know how it easy it seems to sort through someone's possessions and appear to be heartless in paring down, donating, trashing all the things it takes a lifetime to accumulate. When push came to shove and the time ran out for finding a good home for a house full of memories, I thought I did a pretty good job of parting with things I knew I had no place for in my life (or house.)  But these remaining things, the last physical bits of my parents years and years of living in one place are really difficult to part with. Maybe I need for someone else to come and be that pushing, shoving, forceful person who can say: 'This goes here, that goes there, this is trash or put it in the thrift store box.'

I have procrastinated long enough. It is pretty obvious that if I have not found a place to put them in my house and life, it is apparent I do not need to hang onto these bits and pieces of the past any longer. It's so hard, looking at things my folks loved and cherished for years and turning my back on the past, memories, knowledge of the space things took up in their lives...

laughed out loud...

...while driving last week, on my trip to FL, and again on Wednesday. When I was traveling across south Georgia and twirling the buttons on the radio looking for some decent radio stations. This one broadcast from some place in the wilds of south GA was playing decent music, but kept inserting commercial advertising. Public radio is bad enough, always asking you to donate your car or support their programming. I can ignore the pleas from NPR pretty well, but the stuff on commercial radio is so loud and insistent, it is hard to tolerate, so I am constantly twisting the button to find music instead of yakking.

This one station sending out a signal from some town in the southwestern part of the state had a commercial with a man shouting about 'green eggs and hams, green eggs and hams.' After I heard it a couple of times, I realized he was advertising for a Dodge dealership and what he was actually saying was 'green eggs and Rams'. They were having a big sale on trucks, and if you buy a Dodge Ram pickup truck, the dealership will throw in a Big Green Egg outdoor grill/cooker as a bonus. I laughed and laughed.

Even wrote it down while driving, which made it nearly indecipherable to read when I tried to figure out what the note was about. But I heard it again last Wednesday, as I apparently got in range of that same radio frequency. The man was still shouting about his truck sale and promise of a barbecue if you come in and get a pickup. At the end of the script there is something about 'could-you-would-you... which made me laugh all over again. As would any parent who has read those Dr. Suess books so many times lulling children to sleep it became embedded in the brain.

touring ....

... across south Georgia on Wednesday. Down to Albany, skirting the city on the by-pass, then straight south almost to the Florida line to Thomasville, east across the state through Quitman to Valdosta. Then heading back north, veering off to the east to stop in Nashville, about thirty minutes north of Valdosta, before heading back towards home. Stopping in all those places briefly - but getting home well before dark. I am always surprised that sitting, tooling along with the radio on and cruise control set is so tiring. I guess having to be alert, focused, constantly aware while motoring is reason enough for the experience to be exhausting. But still surprising to get out of the car after driving six or seven hours, bone tired from sitting all that time.

Unexpectedly, I had the day- and the rest of the week - off from work. It gave me the opportunity to go to visit the Auntie, now that her life has caused mine to become considerably more complicated. I've been trying to get down to see her at least once a month. With ulterior motives: try to plan ahead to be the accompanying driver/interested party when she has various medical appointments. It does not always work out, and the facility where she lives will have to provide transport as well as a caregiver to go along for the ride. But a paid worker/caregiver accompanying means I really do not know what happens when she goes to the doctor, dentist, whoever she needs to see for health care.

A major complicating factor recently came in the form of a urinary tract infection. (Never thought I would be having a reveal about such a intimate subject and sharing this type of highly personal stuff with the voyeurs and complete strangers - but I never thought a lot of things that have come to pass in my life!)  An undiagnosed UTI can produce altered behavior, confusion, agitation, anxiety, anger in senior citizens, but it is really difficult to address until you assemble the pieces of the puzzle  evaluating profound changes in personality. The Auntie was acting strange: aggressive, agitated, belligerent, more confused than usual. Generally out of control, to the point that even staff members she really liked, seemed to be willing to cooperate with, could not get her to calm down.

Upon reaching the conclusion she was in need of different medications to help her manage her-own-self, regain control, the staff recommended the Auntie should be sent to a Senior Evaluation Center. Located in a nearby town, in a small hospital under the auspices of an area medical center, they specialize in helping families rescue loved ones from depression, erratic behavior, managing dementia-related problems. All along, my hope has been that the Auntie would be content, and could spend the rest of her days in that supportive, caring environment where she has been for a year.  My expressed goal for her was to be cooperative and tractable with the staff - just generally civilized and agreeable.

I drove down on Wed. to meet with the doctor (a psychiatric specialist) who is the director of the Dogwood Senior  Health Center, in a wing of that small town hospital. Actually only spent about fifteen minutes talking with the Dr. and staffers, to learn more about the Auntie's improved state and their proposed plans for the future. Hopefully the meds. she has been on for several days will be the solution. Though I do have to wonder if there are any markers that might predict her undoing when she is overwhelmed by the next UTI, according to the info. received, she seems to be much more content, cooperative, stable. The term I have heard used by health professionals when she gets out-of-sorts and is so uncooperative is that she is 'difficult to redirect'. Which is a kind, polite euphemism for 'mule-headed'. A perfect description of the Auntie when things are not to her liking. At her age, a person who has always been independent, self-determined and unyielding is not likely to change, but we can hope that the right Rx will moderate the worst of the obstinate behavior.

it fits...

... as a sadly accurate description of my inability to make demands of other people. I choose to place the blame for failure to have gumption on being raised to be Southern, polite, well-mannered and cautious when conversing with anyone who might be easily offended. Readily acknowledge that I am hopelessly unassertive. Have virtually no ability to stand my ground, tend to bend when pushed rather than stand up ramrod straight and hold my ground.

Which made the short quote I recently read so memorable as well as accurate. Though I failed to make a note of the source, cannot tell which book it came from, it was so spot-on, I wrote it down to be able to quote it again. Probably took notes while driving, making the words really difficult to decipher when they got 'cold' and I found the note days later in the floor of my car.

This is the thing that 'fits' even though you would want to substitute a female pronoun for the one you read here: "He avoids confrontation like it is an art form. He is not just a fence sitter, he is able to disappear at decision time." I am pretty sure I do not actually vanish like the Cheshire Cat in the Alice story, but know I will make myself really scarce, in order to avoid saying things other people don't want to hear. :(

I have no hesitation to tell people about my math disability, reconciled to being impaired. But include the conviction that we are all 'differently gifted'. And know I have other commendable skills/talents that more than make up for being so this small unwanted personality glitch. So I suppose I might as well go ahead and make myself content with this 'fence sitting' posture as well.

book reveiw: "Before We Were Yours"...

... written by Lisa Wingate. Recommended by my cousin, the teacher of reading! A bit of research on the Internet will leave you astounded by the truthiness upon which the story is based. There was a woman so self-centered, greedy and above the law that children were actually stolen from their parents, taken into facilities where they were sold to couples desperate to start families. Georgia Tann, based in Tennessee had a network of people who would procure youngsters and deliver them, forlorn, weeping, frightened to her homes where they would be given to parents who would pay for illegal adoptions, then pay again when threatened. She ran the orphanages with an iron will, where children were subjected to isolation, deprivation, hunger to force them into cooperative behavior. Apparently the authorities were paid to look the other way for many years, before Tann's nefarious dealings were brought to an end.

Wingate did her research to uncover this stain on the history of TN, and used her findings to write a tale of families broken and mended. The fictional account of a nearly destitute family living on a small boat on the Mississippi River near Memphis came apart when the mother was taken by the dad to a hospital for a complicated birth. The children left behind were spirited away and deposited at the orphanage, eventually separated and sold to different families. Two of the daughters were reunited, and as adults finally reconnected with two others.

The revelations at the end of the tale bring it to a bittersweet close. It is sweet story but difficult to reconcile the realities of that bygone era with the considerations now given to adoptees, birth-parents and rights of discovery now legally enforced. That woman with all the power to forcefully dismantle families came to a sad ending, dying of cancer. But the truth of her influence to alter lives on a whim, for profit continues to have a profound effect on people who will always wonder about their origins, and family histories that have so many blanks and question marks.
 
A brief quote from the introduction: "In my multi-fold ears of life, I have learned that most people get along as best they can. They don't intend to hurt anyone. It's merely a terrible by-product of surviving." I guess I have to agree - wanting to believe there are really not many deliberately malicious people in the world, but most who do evil are often overwhelmed by circumstance. Or opportunity?

book review: " Blackberry Winter"...

... written by Sarah Jio. Published by Penguin Books in 2012. Another selection found at the library, randomly chosen off the shelf in the section of recorded books, so I 'read' it while driving (even more dangerous than talking on the phone?!) It was sort of difficult to follow - as are many stories when written from two different points of view: the author skips back and forth in time or the narration is done by two characters. This book had both, so it was a struggle to jump from one to the other as the story unfolded in two different centuries as told by two women.

The back story, the one that occurred in the 1930's was of a  mother, Vera Ray, whose son disappeared when she went to work one night during a rare May snowstorm. She was poor and struggled to manage financially, worked as a maid in a hotel, treated like a second-class citizen as was common in that era. She searched endlessly for young Daniel, though the boy was considered dispensable by authorities, and she was blamed as being a negligent, unfit, uncaring mother. Complicated story, but I will not reveal any spoilers.

Claire Aldridge is a young reporter, assigned to write a story about that unusual snow, when eighty years later, a storm occurs on that same date in early May. In researching the weather anomaly, she discovers an article about Vera and and report of a missing child. Determined to know more, she begins asking questions, digging through old files and documents for answers. Surprises abound. Even though her efforts to discover the truth of the incident that occurred decades ago are discouraged, she persists and finds she has a personal connection with that obscure story, accidentally unearthed from the distant past.

It was interesting, a plot with some unexpected twists. As I said, slow going due to having to be aware of the changes from one century to the other - and might have been easier to follow if I had been reading it in print, rather than listening. But a good story - of the sort you see made into a movie.

second-guessing...

...oneself is most definitely not a productive endeavor. I have spent a lot of time in the past week wondering if the decisions made related to the Auntie have been the best choices. Turning the recent behavioral crisis into an opportunity to worry and ponder about long-past decisions: an activity that surely qualifies a prime exercise in futility.

The Auntie has been, as long as I have known her, very self-sufficient. Independent, remarkably capable and profoundly determined. Which are great characteristics to have when your life-style is that of a single person, without the binding weight and obligation of close relationships to a partner or children.When attempting to explain her personality and current to status to other people I hold out both hands, as if creating a sort of scale/balancing between two extremes. One side/hand is the independence - completely able to manage her life, finances, personal health, and decisions about housing, transportation, lunch, when to get up and when to go to bed. The other hand/end of the equation: profoundly stubborn to the point of being mule-ish, unable to take advice, listen to other's opinions, respond appropriately to anyone in authority.

Some degree of her current situation is impacted by a recurrent, chronic urinary tract infection, that alters behavior and personality in a variety of ways. Creating symptoms in older people that can readily mimic dementia - ironic that she has a dementia diagnosis, and the accompanying progressive memory loss. She certainly does not need more of that! 

Prescription medications meant to temper her problems, delay the memory loss, as well as meds. designed to help alleviate anxiety, stress and agitation have apparently had undesirable effects as she became unmanageable where she has been living for a year. The staff had apparently taken all the demanding abusive behavior they could tolerate. She was transported nearly a week ago to a Senior Evaluation Center in hopes of finding the right combination of medications that will make her easier to live with. Cooperative as well as hopefully content with herself.

Things have not gone well. I have called every day to inquire about her status and received distressing reports about her resistance. Reactions to being in a secured environment, where most anyone who felt imprisoned would be anxious and determined to be released. For a person who has been self-determined, always in control, I cannot begin to guess how difficult it would be to have lost all her independence, be forced to submit to the demands of other people. I know she is frustrated, angry, upset as well as confused when placed in a foreign environment, surrounded by strange faces of people who are unfamiliar.

I have wondered if I did the right thing by leaving her in south Georgia. I have doubted my decision to have her live so far away, a long frustrating three hour drive from her next of kin. Thinking it would be a kindness to have her geographically close to friends who were there and might come to visit. But at a considerable distance from me, who is ultimately responsible for her care and maintenance. Devoting far too much time in recent days to wondering about what the best choice would be - long after the decision was made. My mom would get a good laugh and tell me I was struggling with '20-20 hindsight'. Then tell me to quit, let it go, move on....

ugly babies...

There are little bits of egg shell on the bricks between the front step and flowerbeds/planters on either side of the door. This is what made me go get the step ladder and try to peep into the nest. The first ladder I got was too short, and even with a taller one, I could not get up high enough to see into the nest, so the photo are with me standing there holding my phone over the nest and not really knowing what I was taking a picture of until after the fact.

... hatching out in the nest by my front door. This tidy little home was begun last summer, and much to my surprise: being used again. It was so interesting/confounding/fascinating in location and construction that I could not make myself take it down to dispose of it after the family matured and departed last year. So it just sat there over the winter, and is home to another generation of homely, scrawny, floppy naked birds. Man - baby birds are so ugly, only a mother could tolerate!

I do not know what kind they are. I've seen the mother, or maybe dad, who has given me the benefit of her raucous opinion on several occasions. I was recently out near the nest, using my broom to knock down cobwebs that were around the door and windows. There was a brownish colored bird sitting on a limb of the crepe myrtle at the corner of the house, making lots of twit-twit sounds. A steady commentary, giving me the benefit of her unsolicited belief that the person waving the broom was 'way too close to her nest/family.

I am assuming/guessing she is the one who built that nest last spring, carefully constructed as you can see, cushioned with tiny bits of grass and moss. Precariously perched on the top of a clear glass sphere that is the globe/cover for the light adjacent to the front door. It appears to be glued in place, surprisingly securely, with bits of mud -amazing how the knowledge to construct and adhere was in the bird's brain before it hatched and reproduced. How can you possibly think that due to evolution?

false indigo...

... is what I thought that plant was I spotted several weeks ago, and now I am not sure what makes me think that? I cannot recall how I determined after seeing something really interesting in some one's landscaping that thing that was so striking, unusual looking was 'false indigo'. Somehow I got that particular idea in my brain, making me think I really wanted to have a plant, even though I had no idea where it get one, or where I would place it if I did have one.

Even worse is the fact that I did accidentally see one last weekend while volunteering at the daylily fest/plant sale: so naturally I jumped right in and bought it. Now I am pretty sure that the thing I saw growing in the landscape along Ponce de Leon Ave. in Atlanta was not false indigo. Mostly because the flowers on that really pretty plant in the anonymous yard were white, or maybe creamy/eggshell colored. You can imagine my surprise when I discovered false indigo is: indigo! What did I really expect?  When I finally got around to looking it up, the photos look nothing at all like the one I saw weeks ago: examples I found on the Internet all are purple or a deep dark royal shade of blue. Well, really?

I'm not even sure I want this 'thing' I accidentally bought: now that I find it can be invasive, and will reseed in places you don't really want it to be. Like that coreopsis I thought I wanted, it bloomed, reseeded and popped up everywhere, causing me to aggressively snatch up plants, as soon it as the leaves get big enough for identification. Or that English Ivy I thought I wanted after seeing how attractive it looked growing in someones' carefully tended yard. Only to find that it requires daily diligence to keep under control, otherwise it turns in to kudzu and creeps up trees, invades other plantings,  as well as creeping in the window and up the bed post at night, and is virtually impossible to eliminate.

I put my cash into it, and now I am committed. We have had abundant rains in recent weeks, making it a great time to plant things, so I guess I might as well proceed with getting this indigo thing in the ground. After researching (ie: googling) it appears the plant forms seed pods after blooming, making me hope that I can pay attention, get the seed pod before it matures, dries, opens and seeds fall, and keep it under control. Making me think of that movie/play about a carnivorous plant that ate unwary customers... I know this one is not a man-eater, but still - I do not want to plant something that will take on a life of it's own, and turn into a nuisance, blight on the landscape.

only about two shy...

... of driving four hundred miles today. I got up too early and was on the road by shortly after 6 a.m. Driving to Florida to have lunch and a visit with friends. There is something so peaceful to me to be up and on the road, heading out as the sun begins to lighten up the landscape, glowing clouds in the east. Long shadows across the farm land, fields of dark green corn stalks standing tall as the day begins. Virtually no traffic on the highway once I passed through Ft. Benning,with all the military and contract people heading in to work on post.

We had cheap fun when daughter met us for lunch with kids: bouncy, energetic, completely incapable of sitting in chairs long enough to share a half of grilled cheese and apple. Sweet and funny, cute and amusing. They were headed out to the pool for a daily diversion before they will start summer camps or day care next week.

I knew it was over 150 miles from home to Tallahassee, so not surprised by the distance driving to Albany, then Thomasville, and straight south to I-20, a short hop over to the exit to get to their house. We sat and chatted, caught up on family doings, news worth sharing, then went to meet the peeps for lunch. I wanted to get back home before dark, due to necessity for early bed to get up at 5 a.m. for work on Saturday.

I came back through Havana and Bainbridge, up the western edge of the state on Highway 27, all four-laned, with no traffic at all - and easy drive back to middle Georgia. Smooth roads with only about four traffic lights for the two hundred miles through farm land. Little population, few residences, a couple of big tractors puttering along, with raised harrow blades that appeared wide enough to cover both lanes, and more fields of corn you could almost see growing: looking green and healthy.  Ran into a few spots of heavy rain, such a deluge it was hard to seethe road in full daylight.  Just storms that I passed through in a matter of minutes/miles. Looked at mileage when I got home again to discover I was only several miles shy of having driven four hundred for the day. On one tank of gas: pretty impressive!

trivial medical info ...

... is a sketchy way for getting your attention, but here is some pertinent info. of benefit if you are one of many who struggle with disrupted overnight sleep. I might as well confess to being in that category: as I have weathered enough seasons (sounds much better than 'aging', right?) to know a night of sound sleep can be elusive. That year I spent working in a position where the assignment was to put forth my best efforts to guide people who were substance abusing into clear thoughts and freedom from drugs/alcohol, I learned too much about prescription sleep aids to ever use Rx for that.  Causing me to try various options in order to sleep well and long enough to qualify for restful nights.

I think Sleepytime tea helps, and know many people who have a warm cuppa before heading off to bed. My reluctance for choosing chamomile tea is based on the fact that my bladder already wakes me at some point to stumble off in a bleary state for relief. I've been desperate enough to sit down with a cup of tea, after a good sized dollop of honey is added, to sip before bedtime. But I know my bladder (like the caricatures in the ad. you see in magazines, dragging some hapless female off track to make a pit stop) will make excessive demands on my rest at some point in the wee hours of the morning. I can guarantee I am never hydrating sufficiently as I long ago learned: the more you drink, the more you pee.

Other options include generic benadryl. I have been there, done that. Don't like the way it dries out my mouth and sinus, but still on occasion will resort to taking a little pink pill when I am wide awake at 2: 19 a.m., and I want more sleep. It is often a toss up - especially when the alarm is set for four so I can get to work at 5:00. I know it works, just don't like to take it. Great too, for small children on road trips to keep you from strangling someone in the back seat...

The solution I would like to tender: a small blue pill I buy at walmart. I have shared this option with a variety of friends and family members after conversations over feeling sleep deprived. Especially when talking with 'women of a certain age.' I am happy to be here, breathing, taking up space, so no complaints about the info. on my driver's license.

The OTC med., in a little white plastic bottle, is hard to find. I have looked at two different stores this week, and the slot for this product has been empty. A bottle of 32 pills is only $4. Sounds good to me! So when I do find it, I buy all they have. You will find it on the bottom shelf there where the products change from pain killers to sleep aids. It is a generic, called: 'Sleep Aid'. How original is that? The actual ingredient is doxylamine succinate, 25 mg. I will confess to also taking a tablet that is melatonin, bought when they have a buy-one-get-one on generics at CVS. Whatever works for you is what you should do, but I find this to be a winning combo.

an empty day...

... was the square on my calendar for Wednesday. Remarkably unusual for me, as there is always something in need of my attention at home, at work, with family demands, or all those miscellaneous assorted volunteering activities that occupy my time. Nothing at all in that little space marked the 6th, on the pages I depend upon to keep me going in the right direction at the right time - completely blank. A real oddity in  my life.

What I did was not nothing. Things of little consequence, none of the little things that were done to occupy my time were of importance, but busy nonetheless. I felt very accomplished when I got the screened porch swept off. Looking back, I should have been thoroughly mortified it has been so long since it has been cleaned. If that is the case (being mortified) I am already over it - hmmm... that didn't last very long, did it? The mow-and-blow guys come by and stir up everything, so I know my efforts will soon vanish, with the next appearance of the lawn service, but right this minute it looks quite tidy. I sit at a table typing, looking out big plate glass windows, through the screening out across the grassy lawn and into woods, and will enjoy the tidiness of that swept, clean porch as long as it lasts.

I had been postponing pulling in my iron to dispense with some wrinkled fabric for months. I do so thoroughly despise ironing chores, and avoid as long as possible. The necessity occurs when I find some of the little cotton or linen squares in the basket of dish towels that come to the house each week from the church. Occasionally there will be small white squares we use to cover communion bread, that will often get purple grape juice stains requiring a brief stay in bleach water to come clean. They will then, of course, need to be ironed before going back to church for another round. Not precisely neglectful, but I had let several of the little squares accumulate, clean but wrinkled before finally being reconciled to getting them ready to use. Ironed, crisply folded with neat creases, and ready for a return to service.

Seems like there is always some plant at my house that needs a new home. I realized yesterday when out puttering watering, pulling undesirables, moving things around that I am guilty of taking in strays. I don't let myself get lured into providing homes for orphaned domestic animals in need of care, but seem unable to resist plants aimlessly wandering down the street, having been put out and abandoned, lonesome and unloved. Historically my part has consisted of digging a hole and putting them in the ground, then complete neglect. Now, I do feel more of an obligation to nurture, provide at least  minimal effort to see them survive if not thrive. Therefore, there are things sitting around in pots, that I am trying to keep watered and stress-free, until I can figure out where to put it in the yard, or who I might pawn it off on so I can relieve myself of the responsibility!

Some of those plants in containers got planted earlier in the week, and some still sit patiently waiting, like incarcerated family pets at the shelter, optimistically hoping for affection.  I think I can get most of them re-located into 'forever homes' today. Which will put me back to zero, though that won't last for long. There is much to be said for homeownership, but there is also considerable (and endless) responsibility: no one else is going to step in and fix it - whatever the 'it' of the moment is. Always some problem in need of attention: leaks, paint peeling, filters replaced, routine cleaning, cobwebs, dirty windows (worse due to those untidy, indifferent mow-and-blow guys), an endless array of needs, sort of like small children who have endless urgent requirements. We are no different.

when he spilled...

... the little zipper bag holding about a dozen of those little plastic flosser things for personal hygiene, he wanted me to think there was a problem. Bought at the Just-A-Buck store for: $1! You get maybe four dozen in the original packaging, used for cleaning spaces between teeth. With a little short length of dental floss stretched between ends of a U shaped piece of plastic you hold and proceed to get the corn shreds from the narrow spaces between molars.

The Man Who Lives Here was sitting at the table last night and picked up the little plastic zip bag, accidentally had a small spill, and they all fell out: only about ten or so, as the bag is nearly empty. But he said a bad word, so I looked up to see what was going on. He reported he had 'a crisis'. I said "No, you are wrong about that." He asked what I meant? So I told him dropping a hand full of those little plastic hand-held flossing devices did not qualify as a 'crisis'.

A crisis is when you drop a whole flat of blueberries at work, and all the clear plastic shipping containers fly open. Airborne blueberries everywhere - especially bad if it happens out of the smooth sales floor, where dozens of passers-by are pushing grocery carts and shopping. The berries are so nearly spherical they roll every where. Like dropping a case of marbles on a slick surface. You can envision what a spilled box of marbles will be like - traveling at a high rate of speed with no impediments!

Not so bad back in the prep area, as the floors are all sloped towards drains built in when the building was designed. But out there where customers are pushing their carts, on a mission to get the goods and get gone: a recipe for disaster. You cannot get to the stock room and come back with a broom and dustpan fast enough to prevent people from stepping on, squishing blueberries. Which then become 'Slick as Owl S#*t' on that slippery floor.

Or the crisis could be when there is a fresh fruit BOGO, and it takes every employee in the departmetn to stay ahead of demand for double quantities of sweet, cold cubes of watermelon. We can't cut it fast enough to keep the reach-in coolers filled, with customers being lured in to shop for the Buy-One-Get-One bargains of in season juicy ripe watermelon cubes, packaged, weighed, priced and ready to eat. If you happen to be the unlucky person designated to weigh and price a very heavy tray filled with bowls of ready-to-serve fruit, and inadvertently drop the entire tray someone else has spent thirty minutes preparing: That Is A Crisis.  You might want to clock out and beat a hasty retreat!

more tractable...

.. and less 'in' (as in intractable), is what we should all hope for with the auntie. When considering there is a possibility that her behavior cannot be moderated and she will no longer be a resident of the facility where she has been residing for a year.  What would happen next? I have no idea, not even a shred of a thought as to what might be the solution if there are no medications that will help to moderate her outbursts.

Her family practice doctor became insistent that she should not live at home alone, as well as urging her to not drive a car. He is actually the person responsible for the state revoking her driving permit, probably at the insistence of his office staff who would see her driving erratically in the nearby streets. The Auntie continues to be convinced I am the responsible party for all her misfortunes, even though she is actually the source. It's all on the inside!

We should all be reconciled to the fact that at her age, there is no possibility of her becoming a different person. As well as accept that her behavior is compounded by anxiety, frustrations, agitation that are a result of confusion due to memory loss: packed into her DNA at birth. Her dad died in nursing care with dementia, long before it had a name, to be diagnosed/identified as such. Two of her siblings had the same problem, and died in assisted living. I cannot imagine how scare-y it must be to have such a dreadful problem - unable to remember something that you feel you should know.

She recently called me, less than a week ago. It happens fairly often. About half the time it is from her phone, installed in her room at the assisted living facility. The rest of the calls are from the number there at the home, from the nursing desk where I assume she gets someone to dial the number when she cannot manage/master the buttons on the phone. Wanting to know when I am coming to visit, hoping for someone to arrive who will rescue her from her present situation. Many times she will report being in the Holiday Inn, and having lost her car. Often the voice mail message will tell me she is stuck in Macon, or Perry, or some other Georgia town she is familiar with, but she knows she needs help getting home.

This recent call ended by her asking me about 'the folks'? I made the mistake of inquiring if she was referring to her parents or mine. She said she wanted to know about her parents, so I made a Big Mistake and said they were both dead. That her mom died in 1995 and her dad died in 1981. She was very upset, unaware, denied that to be true. Then asked about my parents, which would be her sister and her brother-in-law. I reported they were both dead too.

The conversation soon ended, but she was apparently inconsolable. A staffer called me a bit later, and told me she was going to give the phone to my aunt and I should just play along. She was still weepy, and very sad that both her mom and her dad had died and no one had told her about it. All I could do was tell her how sorry I was.

Dementia is a thief. But the worst part is it is there, embedded at conception in your DNA like a big black evil, hulking creature. Waiting. I recently read a short article about researchers saying that all those puzzles, Suduko, crosswords are not really helpful. I actually found that to be good news, as I do not even make the smallest effort to do puzzles involving numbers! And crossword puzzles are so tedious, it is not something I would put any effort into as a means of entertainment or even keeping my brain sharp.

the big hot mess...

 ... as related to the Auntie: who she is, is who she will always be. When I spoke to a social worker, or maybe therapist last summer as they were making an effort to evaluate and determine if prescriptions might be helpful in improving her status, I was told that her personality would not change with meds. There could possibly be a moderating of certain traits or behaviors that made her difficult to live with, but who she is and has been for over eighty years would always be the same. I said: "Oh, s#*t, is there no hope for a personality transplant? You can't make her into someone else?" Sadly, the answer will always be: No.

The latest episode in the saga is that she has been remanded to a senior treatment/evaluation center where we hope she can be provided with Rx that will be more effective at 'moderating'. When she was at a different location last June, with a similar plan, she spent nearly two weeks in a center that was located town small town hospital. There were a number of other residents there in a secured wing, devoted to mental health care of senior citizens in the area. Offering services to families who were struggling with providing assistance to aging family members, in need of guidance and advice for providing the support to help family members stay as independent as long as possible. This was in Cook County, about thirty miles north of Valdosta where the auntie has lived for many years.

The staff at the facility in Cook County reported she was 'difficult to re-direct', which I have learned is mental health speak for obstinate. Stubborn. Disagreeable. Highly Opinionated. Uncooperative. All the things I have known about my aunt for years. It is pretty obvious that being together in close quarters, living under one roof, it does not take long to become acquainted with an individuals' personality quirks.

The staff at the residential facility where she has been for a year feels like she is having problems they are not able to manage. Recommending that the Auntie would benefit from going to a different center, for evaluating, hoping to get a better result and make her more tractable. I would have to agree that a good word to describe her would be 'intractable'. Reports from the facility in recent weeks have been alarming: including striking employees, shouting, swearing, threatening workers, unreasonable demands, cursing at fellow residents.

My thought would be: they don't pay me well enough for that! Plus it has always been my goal to do whatever is necessary to help the staff, by making the Auntie easier to live with. I know she can be demanding, insistent on having her way, and unreasonable when that does not happen. Even with medications that might moderate undesirable behavior and traits, it is obvious that the Auntie will continue to be the Auntie.

Upon the advice of the head nurse, received reports of her activities, interactions and recent outbursts, she has been transported to a different location that provides senior citizens with evaluations and assistance. It is more than likely she is not a happy camper where she has been temporarily remanded. This alternative facility, still in south Georgia, is also about thirty minutes from Valdosta. It is almost a certainty that within minutes of her arrival on Tuesday morning, the staff found she is 'very difficult to re-direct'.

It is good to know that there are options, places where people can go for a short stay in dire circumstances. When families are close to the end of their tether, needing assistance, or just a brief respite from being on the front lines on a daily basis. A resource nearby that will give some breathing room, as well as hope for solutions to insurmountable problems. I am hopeful. The head nurse gave me that - with the idea that the staff has much experience specifically with geriatrics and the many complicating factors of aging. Hopeful for moderating extreme behavior that will not take away her personality or sense of humor, but make her easier to live with, even though she will always feel like she is being held hostage.

if you were to ask...

... one of my two favorite people to give a short definition of the present situation, I am fairly certain it would be described as a 'big hot mess.' I am sure there is some way to be more specific and possibly a better way to express the gravity of the small crisis (is 'small crisis' an oxymoron?), but under the circumstances, it seems to be fairly accurate. The Mess involves my auntie, and her lack of ability to make decisions about her life.

If she were able to self-determine, she would insist on going home, back to the house she has not inhabited in a year. Even though it would be sadly obvious to anyone who spent ten minutes talking with her than she cannot manage her life, and will  not live independently. I don't know whether it is a good thing or a bad thing but she cannot remember much of anything: stuff from fifty years ago, yes, but five minutes ago: not so much, and certainly could not find her way home if she was out on the streets.

She was persuaded (and slightly deceived) about, almost, nearly a year ago, when she relocated and moved into an assisted living facility in south Georgia. At the time, it seemed like the best solution to the problem: she was unable to manage many facets of her life, and simply could not live independently. This sad fact is why I felt it was time to step in and find an attorney, apply for Guardianship and go to the Probate Court to get appointed as the person who would be responsible, 'take her on to raise' - even though she is considerably older than I. The Guardian can also petition the Court to become the Conservator, who would be the person appointed to manage finances, whereas the Guardian is primarily responsible for the care and well being of an individual who needs assistance, cannot live independently.

I am both of those things. Just put the paperwork in the mail today to send to Probate Court that reports on her status: physical, mental and financial. It has to be done once a year, which scares the stew out of me. Fearful I won't do something right, will miscalculate as I am prone to do as the terminally math-impaired person that I am. Creating a reason for me to be summoned to make an appearance before theProbate Judge, who will demand an explanation. Causing me to whine and grovel, beg and whimper, throw myself on the mercy of the court as I explain, exposing all my inadequacies, inabilities, failings, short-comings under oath.

official invitation...

... well, not precisely 'invitation': actually a demand as it was a Summons to Jury Duty. My presence was requested to appear at the local government center precisely at 9:a.m. on Monday, July4 2018. I told the guys at work that I had received the notice a month ago, and should plan to make my self available for the requirements of participating in the democratic process. The guy who makes the schedule was apparently far more optimistic about the whole thing than I was, because he put me on the work schedule for Monday.

I had to be at work, clock in 7:00 and leave a hour later, in order to get downtown to the government center. Park in a lot two blocks away and go through the scanning device before being admitted to the building. I took a book, and some note cards I wanted to get written to mail as I expected to waste the morning. I also had available, mentally, a variety of excuses I planned to whip out should the opportunity arise to extract myself from this environment. My plan could be compared to holding a winning hand in a card game, sitting there with my cards fanned out, trying to keep a 'poker face', pondering which card to place on the table to confound your opponent. I felt I had a number of options, and had been mulling over which might prove most effective to plead my case, thereby avoiding being impaneled and spending the week serving on a case I did  not want to hear.

The clerk arrived to get our attention: it was precisely nine o'clock. It is pretty telling that we had to prove our identification by bringing a bar code that was on the printed summons for scanning. Apparently things have slowly, incrementally arrived to the point that we are living in a state where every one is issued a UPC code for identification? Scary, huh?

After everyone checked in, standing in line to be scanned like so many mindless sheep, some few were eliminated, and invited to leave. The clerk reported only one judge was working this week, and his court would be hearing a criminal case, so anyone who was retired law enforcement, or active duty military was dismissed, allowed to leave. Guess the attorneys would automatically eliminate anyone who had experience with enforcement when there was someone who had already been incarcerated  trying to prove innocence.

After weeding out the  ones who would not be accepted, the clerk then asked if anyone wanted to come forward with 'hardship excuses'. I jumped right up to get in that line and offer my up to the legal machine again. I reported myself as a guardian and conservator of a disabled auntie who lives in Valdosta, explaining that I could be called and needed in south Georgia on short notice. I was immediately released.

Yay! I know it was helpful that only one judge was in session for the week, and there were probably 150 people in the pool who had showed up prepared to serve if needed. I am thankful to be set free and sent on my merry way. Irony of all ironies: all this time of trying to provide the much needed assistance for my auntie, and being so frustrated, aggravated as she declines mentally. She has been so opposed to anyone doing things that help, certain she can manage independently without anyone else interfering, which gets less true with each new day. And I have been often stymied at her resistance, annoyed to the hilt. And now: I am telling the court she is my first, best reason for avoiding serving on a jury! Finally this arduous, complicated process filled with extenuating circumstances has had some benefit....

it's pretty obvious...

... that I am not really related to The Man Who Lives Here. He is not as compulsive as he once was about going to the post office every single day to check in his box for bills that need attention. When he would receive something that required payment for service rendered, there was a compelling necessity that he would write a check and get it in the mail before the end of the day. I can't explain it. Do not understand why it could not simmer for a week, when anyone who works in accounts receivable will confirm 'you have thirty days to get the payment in'.

There was some desperate sense of urgency about getting that check written and in the mail before bedtime. We have all heard tales of little kids with a nickle in their pockets being itchy to get to the candy store and spend every red cent possible. The Man Who Lives Here has historically been just as 'itchy' to get checks written and bills squared away at the earliest possible minute after opening his post office box.

That's definitely not me. I left town last Sunday afternoon, and got back four days later on Wednesday. The mail piled up for an entire week. Just today, when I returned from a long nine-and-two-thirds hours work day,  (after I plopped down in the couch and took a nap!) I am finally opening mail accumulated from the past week. Looking at all the bills that want someone's attention. Fortunately most belong to my auntie, so the funds will come out of her checkbook instead of mine!

Between offers of zero interest for eighteen months on a sparkling new credit card, to businesses urging her to get her hearing tested and take $500 off on hearing aids, she gets much more mail at my address than I do. If it is bills she needs to pay, that suits me perfectly. Home insurance, property taxes, mow-and-blow guy, accoutrements of the American Dream. Sadly, most of this stuff she no longer can enjoy, as a result of relocating to assisted living. But all still need attention and make demands on the (math-impaired) person who was appointed to  mind her business for her.

day off from work...

... to donate to the local botanical gardens. For the Annual Day Lily Festival. Really amusing that I am giving my time to this, as I do not particularly care for the blooming hemoricallis flower. I have never been in love with day lilies. My dad really liked them, and had a number of unusual ones planted in his flowerbeds he acquired after he retired and had time to tend a garden. He shared several with me years ago, that I failed to tend, so they have all disappeared under the layers of leaf mulch due to neglect.

I think part of my day, as it is divided into 'shifts' for morning and afternoon, is being a greeter. Not being a type-A, outgoing, hail-fellow-well-met sort of person, this will be challenging. I can ask customers at work 'need some help?', but I am forcing that good cheer,  as it is a necessity and requirement of a paying job. I am just not an extrovert and will have to really work at being cheery and chipper in order to present the proper attitude during my shift attending the welcome area, greeting, providing maps and info.

But when they let me get in the golf cart and whizzzzzz around the property: Nelly-bar-the-door! Even though the top speed is probably thirteen-and-a-half miles per hours, it feels really fast when you floor the acceleration pedal. This is the part where I help patrons and customers of the event with their purchases to return to the parking area. There will be vendors present selling plants and assorted crafts, so customers will be buying things and need assistance with getting their goods back up a fairly steep hill to the area where cars are sitting.

After checking the weather to be assured there is not rain in the forecast, I will now put on my shorts and volunteer shirt and get underway. I expect it will be a steamy, humid, sticky day, but thankful there is not going to be 110% humidity in the form of falling water in addition to heat. It's June in the South.

yesterday was...

...my dad's birthday. For years I have been sending my brother a gift card to go eat ice cream on May 31. Encouraging him to go to Dairy Queen, or Chic-fil-A or Wendy's, or any other place he might think of, especially if it meant taking little people with him who would enjoy licking an ice-cream cone. My dad did love ice cream, especially if it was home-made with lots of heavy cream, a thick delicious custard, after simmering on the stove all day long.

I think the recipe came from his mom, so you know there is a lot of bad stuff in it, from a time before any one thought to to give a flip about refined sugar or cholesterol. Whole milk, at least half a dozen eggs, cups and cups of granulated sugar. Put all in a double boiler, and cook on the back burner for hours and hours. The custard gets thicker and thicker as it cooks all day. Take it off, let it cool and add copious amounts of whole/heavy cream, strain into the canister that goes in the ice cream churn.

Chill overnight. Put it in the churn with ice and rock salt and plug the motor in. We are not going to do this by hand, cranking until it feels like your arm might fall off. Even though we might use a recipe that is a hundred years old, we do appreciate modern conveniences. Thankful for electricity, plugging in the motor that turns the dasher in the churn round and round until it is ready to eat.

He really liked it when it was strawberry season and there were ripe berries to put in it, after you put them in the blender to make them easy to stir in. Or fresh Georgia peaches. But was also perfectly happy with vanilla, as long as it was home-made with all those deadly ingredients that resulted in it tasting just like his mom used to  make, when you had to crank and crank and crank until you could not crank any more.

No one left to take to get ice cream and reminisce about the man who loved it so. I thought about him all day yesterday and today - remembering how simple things made him so happy. So easy to please and readily delighted by something as easy to enjoy as Plain Old Vanilla.