The Naked Habit

I admit it, I need help. I need one of those support groups for bad behavior. Something like this:

“Hi, my name is Jeanie, and I’m a procrastinator.”

I live for the future. There is always tomorrow. Scarlett O’Hara has nothing on my abilities to put off today, what can be done tomorrow because tomorrow is always another day.

Until this last couple of weeks. The snow and being snowed in has provided just the opposite of scenarios for planning my daily tasks. The snow has shouted “There is NO tomorrow.”

I have always thought of myself as organized, that everything is prearranged and well thought-out. Case in point: my Christmas cards. I had planned finishing up my Christmas cards on Friday the 18th because my boss would be out of town and I would have free slots of time to label envelopes, fold already printed letters, and write quick notes to everyone.

And then it snowed. It snowed a lot. I had a snow day on Thursday. But I felt content in the knowledge that I still had Friday. After all – this was the first snow day in 35 years. Naturally it would abate enough for me to get to work on Friday and get my cards out.

Friday it was another snow day. And I have been pretty much snow bound ever since, which overlapped into my **prearranged** and **preplanned** vacation, scheduled through to the 5th of the New Year.

Did I learn my lesson? (The lesson to “live in the now” as if there is NO tomorrow) Nope. Sunday was my laundry day – and I live in a house with no laundry services. I was *planning* on going to the Laundromat Sunday but for some reason, that procrastinator gene popped up and said, “Hey! You can get out on the roads today! Why not go shopping! Why do chores! You can do the laundry TOMORROW.”

And this morning I am once again snowed in and the snow isn’t stopping. EVER. It will snow tomorrow, too, but since there is no tomorrow, that means it is going to snow FOREVER.

I have no clean clothes. (I have an abundance of clean underwear because you never know when something unplanned might happen.) No clean jeans, no clean shirts, lots of cotton underwear.

So, uh, I am planning on attending my Procrastinator’s Anonymous meetings in the future but since I’m trying to rehabilitate myself, live in the now, I might not make it. I’d go tonight, but I’m snowed in, so . . .

Tomorrow is another day. Maybe.

Resolution

I have such good intentions
Making New Year’s Resolutions
Why is it that my ambitions
Fall short of absolution

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Why I hate 2008 Just a Little

The reason(s) I am really looking forward to a New Year and all these reasons happened in only the last two weeks of 2008:

Wednesday - Fifteen days before New Year’s it snowed two feet; an hour and a half to get home

Thursday - Snowed another foot; first “snow day” from work

Friday - Second “snow” day; screen door sealed shut from two inches of ice on other side; after slipping hot water through door sill and then tossing out rock salt, finally slipped through with coal shovel and pounded on remaining ice; ceiling leaked in living room, soaking and sopping the dry wall until it fell in white chalky gooey globs onto the carpet; climbed up to roof, shoveled and pounded ice

Saturday - Shoveled and shoveled and snow blowed four hours; water leaking at corner of living room ceiling, sending rivulets down behind plate glass mirror; repeat “up on the rooftop”; renter next door called to say furnace was not working; called repairman who said he would get there later (five hours later at 7:30); time and a half, $500 repair; 11:30 out on roof again because center of living room ceiling is dripping (eventually a gallon before finished shoveling

Sunday - Screen door sealed shut again; same routine as before.

Monday - First day of two-week vacation. Uncovered cars (again) of new foot of snow; shoveled and snow blowed the parking area, the neighbor’s parking area, the mail boxes, the paper boxes (another four hours). Haven’t seen mail since Wednesday; paper arrives every other day

Tuesday - Got my one and only Christmas card; back on the roof to shovel because of dripping in the middle of the living room ceiling; furnace next door went out again; picked up small part for furnace;

Wednesday - Christmas Eve – 20 minutes after putting the pies in the oven, the power went out for the entire neighborhood of 2100 houses; discovered the power supply for computer had been fried by the power outage; snowed four inches; plows came by at 11:30 at night and plowed me in.

Thursday - Getting ready for Christmas dinner at son’s; at noon, center of ceiling pouring water like turning on a faucet; spent next hour on ceiling shoveling, pounding, jumping up and down, spreading rock salt; got stuck on berm created the night before; shoveled; became point man for hubby to barrel out of parking spot; point man again half a mile later to get over berm created along Park – looked both ways and said “gun it!” and miraculously made it to clearer passage way of Park.

Friday - New leak on east side of house, back on roof for another hour, shoveling and scraping and taking up asphalt, generally really tired of this; head for Eager Beaver on Evergreen to fix computer; do the gunning of Park again; very heavy, very slow traffic

Saturday - Snowed another four inches; snow blowing walkway working out to parking area. Gee – a whole day without the ceiling leaking somewhere.

Sunday -

Monday -

Tuesday -

Wednesday -

Thursday - New Year’s Day – and hopefully this is a sign that 2009 will be a whole lot better than 2008.

Hope

I am thinking of many things this Christmas 2008. I have many losses this year and it is more poignant at Christmas – missing my parents, missing the childhood days of traditions at Christmas and the total unbelievable excitement that permeated the air and made all of us giddy.

I miss the infancy of my oldest child, who was born 15 days before Christmas. The birth of Jesus never meant more to me than at that time. I was filled with awe thinking of Mary giving birth in a barn; thinking about the future of her baby and that he would become my Lord. I am remembering holding my new little baby on Christmas Day, dressed in a red and white sleeper with a Santa hat, looking more beautiful than the Gerber baby! I was the envy of the entire world! I think of Christmas as birth, as a new beginning, a fresh start, the dawn of HOPE.

I want to grasp this HOPE and clutch it tight to my chest, let it carry me forward through 2009. This is my goal today, now. To bring this HOPE to the new year like a flaming torch.

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Remembering Dad

If I could, if there was some way I could talk to him once again, I would let him know I am thinking of him:

Hey Dad,

I have missed you so much! Your unconditional love for me (your Pumpkin), has guided me all these years without you. I have wanted so much to show off my boys to you; you were such a great influence on them. They loved “Grandpa from the farm” and then when you moved to the Oregon coast, “Grandpa from the beach.”
They’ve grown! One got married! Can you believe it?

Dad, I wish you were here – so many good things about my life are because of you. I want to emulate your goodness, kindness, and compassion. I want to be held to your high standards of professionalism and integrity.

And I want to have the same enthusiasm you did for the little things in life – the short cuts that really weren’t; the home made sling shots that were the best invention for sibling interaction – why call it anything else – we weren’t rivals. No way! We were warriors and soldiers and adventurers, our only “prop” a simple wooden sling shot made from old inner tubes. The fantastically fast six-man toboggan run you made, that got so smoothed out from many rides that we could make a complete loop and never have to get off the toboggan. The igloo made out of the two feet of snow we had in 1964. In 1969 we had another record breaking snow and that’s the last time you ever shouted to the winter gods, “I wish it would snow two feet deep!”

I thought of you the last few days as I spent about eight hours cumulative in shoveling and scraping snow, and finding a place to dump the snow I shoveled. We have had three feet of snow in the last four days! Isn’t that phenomenal? Imagine the igloo palaces you could make!

As I move on and leave you over the Rainbow Bridge, I would really like to crawl in your lap and just lean into you, my comfort and my strength.

God bless you, Dad!

Dedicated to my Dad, Don Rice, Spokane Chronicle Editor, who passed away 15 years ago this week at the age of 67.

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Anticipation

This is the Week of Anticipation. It's seen in every child as they peer through the window at the snow-crested trees, the lights and decorations draping the tree in the living room, the bells ringing on maybe sleighs drawn by horses, adorned with bells and red leather reigns. You can feel the eagerness that sets everyone on the edge of their seats with expectations of dreams and wishes coming true! It is the underlying and tangible Hope of aspirations; the optimism of expectation!

You remember keenly being that child. All good things were coming your way just because it was Christmas! Christmas meant birth. It was a New Beginning topped by a fresh new year so the slate was entirely clean, ready for your footprint. It was perfect bliss! I loved the feeling of Christmas – all the excitement, the delight, the smiles, the exhilaration!

I felt it again driving home Friday night – first when I passed a horse drawn carriage elegantly moving along Lincoln towards Riverfront Park – beautiful, graceful horses slowly dancing down the street. Then I passed a truck carrying a Santa sleigh, totally engulfed in twinkling red and white lights, ready to be the carrier for the Great Saint Nicholas himself! You could taste the thrill in the air, the crispiness of the night, the anticipation of Santa, of holidays, of Christmas, of magic!

Even as an adult, I am transported to a higher version of myself. I feel an expectation within me that is just bursting; I drag all my Christmas sweaters out of storage and eagerly go through each one; which to wear today; which to wear tomorrow. I gather all my dangly, sparkly earrings that are snow flakes, crystal icicles, blinking reindeers, laughing Santas. What to wear first!

This is the Week of Anticipation!

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Boxes and More Boxes

Off The Cuff -- Boxes Galore
I packed up my entire house today in 14 boxes and some bags. It was sad to see my life sitting in my living room, and its only destination is a storage unit/Alexis. From Huckleberries Online here

Other than college days, I have never been able to get all my belongings in just 14 boxes. I have 20 boxes right now filled with collectible glassware that are sitting in my cellar. I have thousands of books that would probably fill 30 boxes. My bedding alone would fill my car! And I save everything because I collect everything.

As soon as I read this quote on Huckleberries, a memory flashed into my mind of the day we moved Grandmom out of her apartment to live in a nursing home. She lived in a one-bedroom assisted living apartment, half the size of my 730 square foot house. She had spices in her cupboard that had petrified, probably purchased in the late 30s. She had piles of new slacks that still had the price tag on them from stores that have been closed for a couple decades.

As I was going through her things, trying to pare it down to what would fit in a side table (or in one box), I kept going over MY things in my mind. I vowed then and there that I was going to whittle down my stuff so that my sons would not be sitting on the floor of my living room surrounded by endless empty little jars of makeup (because they were milk glass and probably collectible); magazines from the 70s; canned food from the 70s; 29,000 pens and pencils; glue sticks that were glueless and sticky notes that had lost their stick; a gazillion balls of yarn and just as many mid-process uncompleted knitting projects; cross word puzzles already filled out. . .

So far, I have only managed to put these things in boxes and store them in closets. I have managed, though, to record them on tape for which I will transcribe them later. It's been several years since I started the tape and stored the boxes. I have a box full of all those travel size soaps and shampoos you get in hotels. I wonder what the shelf life is for generic motel shampoo?
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I Know a Short Cut!

“I know a short cut!” my Dad would shout in triumph.

And the rest of the carload – Mom, two brothers, one sister, and me – would, in unison, tremble and shudder. A short cut meant only one thing: Dad was lost and we were doomed.

We frequently went for “Sunday drives” with Mom packing a loaf of bread and peanut butter. Off we would go in the family station wagon, over hill and dale, paved highway traversed by thousands of cars or rocky road never seen by man or machine in centuries. It didn’t matter – it was a short cut.

I remember once traveling up a road that could scarcely be defined as a legal mode of transportation, narrow, barely wide enough for the family wagon. Traversing up and up and zigzagging and back ending and tail whipping to the highest reaches of the earth, the car lumbering and laboring like a breathless elephant, suddenly Dad would decide this wasn’t a road at all and then proceed to back down with the sheer drop to the earth far, far below and a rock face spearing the sky on the other side. Dad would steer the monster behemoth car precariously close to the edge. We’d hold our collective breath, clamp our eyes tight shut, and PRAY!

Twice, we went on “short cuts” through uninhabited frontier and ended up in gullies, formed from some recent flash flooding, so that the “road” disappeared into a black, inky, gooey muddy mire that Dad would bravely plow through because he knew it was only a minor detail – until – well, the wheels stopped turning because they were essentially enveloped in a cement like gunk. We’d all get out and push the car while Dad steered. One of those muddy abysses was at least a mile long surrounded by watery swamps on either side tempting the car as Dad fishtailed, zigged, and zagged and finally landed on firm soil.

Many road trips later, I grew up, moved out, had a couple children, and teamed up with my Significant Other. When the boys were about 10 and 11, Lovey decided he wanted to go for a Sunday drive and look for grouse. We traveled towards Chewelah, all the time he is telling us tales of his grouse hunts with his dad, when he veers the car left to a side road, while exclaiming, “I know a short cut!”

Déjà vu set in. I shuddered. Closed my eyes tight. And PRAYED. We were even in an old classic Dodge station wagon, a big black hulking thing. The road started out paved, then turned to gravel, then turned to a wagon train trail, with grass growing knee-high up the middle of the “road.” And then pretty soon it was only a couple of trails, leading up, up, up into the clouds, the proverbial drop off cliff on MY side, the road getting, if possible, NARROWER, still going up, when we reach a “bump” in the road which made you feel like you were going to launch into outer space – where you couldn’t see where you were going to “land.” And the road immediately started to go down, bumpy and jarring – huge boulders in the way – we jumbled and dumbled our way down when we finally came out onto a forest road that branched in two different directions. Lovey took the left route and we ended up on a highway outside of Ford, Washington.

We found no grouse in this little adventure – however, when we reached the highway (alive), the forest road had a sign: “Grouse Trail Road.”

And that’s my last “short cut.”

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Elder Care; Edler Abuse

In answer to a post I made on Community Comment on Elder Abuse here, and to Stickman’s reply at Huckleberries (see right hand panel to check out Huckleberries):

This subject is a sore one for me. Anywhere else in this world and they don't have such facilities. The families just take care of the elderly and treat them with respect and honor that is due them. Is that all I have to say on this, Yes! Fire away, I'm ready.
Posted by the stickman | 5 Dec 8:36 PM

Stickman, I so agree. As I get older, the more I am aware that the way we care for elderly is sorely inadequate. Families are more disparate, careers take precedence in the priority chain, children are moving far, far away leaving parents to spend their last years in isolation. When these parents are unable to care for themselves, they either die or they are entered into a nursing home.

My mother-in-law (well, my significant other’s (Lovey) mother) had a very debilitating stroke in May 2005. The hospital required that she be moved out to a nursing home within two weeks. We never intended for her to be in a nursing home. However, Medicare covered 100 days of nursing home care for her, which was badly needed – she was paralyzed, had a colostomy, feeding tube, breathing tube, and extremely short term memory. She needed skilled nursing until we could manage all the different care needs on our own.

The care was adequate but not quality. We sat vigil in shifts so that one of us was with her all the time. It was hard to do. I have a day job and so there were periods of time neither one of us could be with her. One Saturday morning I arrived for the day and discovered her laying in urine. How can that happen!!! What about the people who have no family members checking on them?

At the end of the 100 days, Lovey moved into her home and fixed her bedroom to accommodate all the critical health needs and we brought her home in September. We had very little outside help. It was 24/7 and we relieved each other in care duties. Besides all her health needs, we did physical therapy with her. Our hopes were that she would improve enough to stand on her own and be able to transfer from her bed to her wheelchair. I would help her with mind games, reading, math – to keep her mind active.

When we got her home, she was 88 pounds, weak, unable to stand or move. The first night home, we had her in a rocker recliner and she was able to rock herself – a monumental achievement in just twelve hours after 100 days of nothing. By Christmas we had her up to her normal 100 pounds. She was able to feed herself puréed food (Cream of Wheat, applesauce, soft scrambled eggs).

In the three years we had her at home, she was content and comfortable. She never reached the point of being able to transfer herself, but I believe with all my heart that our care for her gave her the quality of life she deserved. Had we left her in the nursing home, she would have died in a few weeks.

In the ideal world, yes, it would be nice if families extended to keep parents and grandparents in the fold. That is only natural, I believe. But times are changing and children grow up and distance themselves from their parents, moving out of the city, even out of the country. I hate it! What can we do? As I get older, my retirement is looking less golden and my care as I get more feeble is fading fast!

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The Christmas Tree

One year when my boys were in grade school, Christmas approached and I had absolutely no money. I was strapped. It was all I could do to find a couple fun gifts for each boy (and not hear "Boring clothes, AGAIN?"). I decided not to get a tree. We'd just do without the dang thing. A tree didn't express the meaning of Christmas anyway. That's what I'd tell the boys. There was no fir tree decorated with handmade bells and angels at the Manger.

I got up one morning and started the ritual of getting everyone ready to leave for the day – matching socks (so they couldn't find matching socks and I see them walking down the sidewalk as I am driving away, each wearing one brown sock and one red sock), cereal, make beds, get myself dressed. I started to leave and I couldn't get my back door open. There was a HUGE Christmas tree laying on its side right at the door. I had to go around through the front door to get to the carport, where I discovered that I pretty much had to get INTO the tree in order to lift it up and move it. So, I'm kind of inside the tree, waddling out into the front yard, meandering and zigzagging to keep upright. What my neighbors saw at 6:30 in the morning was a drunk Christmas Tree trying to break in the front door. But I finally made it!

There was a card, Goofy on the front, signed by "Anonymous." "Have a Merry Christmas!"

I have two very good friends who happened to also be Spokane police officers – high up in rank, too – one was a Sergeant and one was a Lieutenant. I'd have them both over for coffee or dinner; holidays were a buffet style where each could stop in on his dinner break, grab a plate, eat, and run.

After much sleuthing on my part, it turned out that one night they both ended up on the graveyard shift. They got to talking about their poor pitiful friend (moi) and came up with a plan. (There should be a drum roll and suspenseful sounding orchestra music here.)

They met at a tree lot that was pretty sparse, being so close to Christmas. They snuck in and stole a tree! (They said later that they borrowed it but that since I had used it and its needles were falling off in droves, they really couldn't take it back in that pitiful condition, now could they?) I have often wondered what this looked like, but here you go.

So, after Christmas and guiltlessly enjoying someone else's stolen property, I quietly surreptitiously got rid of the tree in the middle of the night, limb by limb, filling the dumpster. It was the largest tree I have ever had in my house, and the one with the darkest history, too. Imagine two of our finest, just common thieves in the night.

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All I Want For Christmas Is . . .

I know you've been there. It's December what's-it and your spouse asks you what you want for Christmas. Suddenly your mind is blank. Why didn't you come to me and ask that very question back in February when I found the pretty little red sweater I have been dying for, on SALE??? Huh? Where were you then? Or when I said to myself, it would really be nice to have a [fill in the blank]. I don't know why I don't write this stuff down. And I don't want much. A memory card for my digital camera is only about $12. But I can't remember to think about it in December. I have holes in my brain. All the little things I have wished for, drooled over, wanted, desired, coveted – they are all out there somewhere, floating around in the ozone, having entered my brain in some other month than December and filtered out my brain through the holes.

So I'm making a list and checking it twice and I have been good all year, yes I have been nice!

My list:

Bubble bath and the uninterrupted hour to soak, read a book, listen to Il Divo on my Bose, and be surrounded by the scent of my almond candles. (Read the little hints: book, CD of Il Divo, Bose radio (kinda spendy but I'm worth it), aromatic candles.)

Two hours of time-out for my significant other to keep his hands off the remote control (think FREE gift)

Personal body massage (this has benefits that carry over to the masseuse if he happens to be my significant other).

Breakfast totally made by my significant other who requests that I simply sit back in a lounge chair and enjoy my coffee that he poured for me. This includes kitchen clean up.

Boxed set of "Sex and the City"

Russell Stover Cherry Cordials

O! A bottle of Butterscotch Schnapps. A big, big bottle. Maybe a case.

A year's worth of Sodoku puzzles.

A kitten (and you will take care of the litter box)

A weekend at "Run of the River" in Leavenworth (ok, that's half a Bose radio)

Cuddle time every night watching chick flicks

See. I just have to remember to carry my list with me. Or you can carry it with you. That's probably better. I can't be trusted to remember where I put my list and maybe I changed purses half-way through the year and the list got trapped in one of those little pockets and I didn't see it so I didn't transfer it to my new purse and tossed it into the back of the closet never to be seen again for another three years. . . uh, you take the list.

Notebook for my list

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The Simple Season

I remember making bells for the Christmas tree out of egg cartons and foil; this and chain links made out of different strips of colored construction paper and Elmer's glue (or even homemade flour glue). All our decorations were home made. Most of our gifts were homemade. My best dresses were sewn by my mother; toys made by my Dad. Those were the simple days of Christmas.

Our tradition was to put the tree up very late – sometimes on Christmas Eve. It was hand cut by Dad after a drive in the country. It had to be a tree that needed loving. A "Charlie Brown" tree. We would put our handmade decorations on it and then stand around with the only store bought item – icicles – and one by one, we would lay the strands individually on branches. It was a lovely tree!

Christmas Eve day we would make cookies. These were for Santa – but we would test drive a couple dozen before we left them on a plate for the jolly fellow, along with a glass of milk. Every year this little gift would be miraculously gone on Christmas morning. We were in awe! There would even be sleigh tracks in the snow in our front yard. I was always so impressed that he landed in OUR yard!

The night before Christmas we would all get in the station wagon and Dad would tour the town looking at Christmas lights and decorations. We had our tree – but everyone else had "outside" decorations! Every year they were more and more fantastic! Even as an adult, I must go out Christmas Eve and tour the Christmas Village our town has become. It is a magical thing!

Christmas morning we had strict traditions:

we had to sleep in until at LEAST 6:30 in the morning. (My brothers, sister, and I would stay up all night in anticipation, hoping to at least hear Santa – just once. Never happened – but still the anticipation was delicious and enchanting.)

We had to have a substantial breakfast – boring, boring, boring – but this one morning it would be individual cereal boxes of sugar coated, not Mom approved cereal.

After breakfast we could check out our stocking which always had an apple and a banana in it. That was it. Our whole stocking was fruit (to make up for the Sugar Pops)

Once we were done with our obligatory fruit, we lined up to go to the Christmas tree, shortest first. As the years went by, my siblings grew taller than me, so that when I was 18, the oldest, I was first in line!

Dad was assigned the Santa duty of doling out presents, one-at-a-time. While one present was being opened, exclaimed over, gushed over – the rest of us silently sat on our hands, whispering ooos and ahhs to the recipient, all the while trying to patiently wait for the next dole-out.

The rest of the day would be wonderfully exciting – we'd feel love in the air, we could smell it! The banquet would be a feast of scents and tastes. Everything was brand new and bright.

We would sleep like lambs Christmas night, tucked in our beds, still twinkling with the sounds and scents of Christmas!

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Christmas Message

I was appalled to read the news of shoppers stomping a Wal*Mart worker to death on "Black Friday." This is in response.

You may not know me. I roam in the background; I am the rays of the sun filtering through the trees; I am the laughing brook as it skips over stones and pebbles; I am every new born babe; I am the stars twinkling on high.

I am the Spirit of Christmas, with God's great hand on my soul; assigned to my position over two thousand years ago.

I was there when a sweet innocent girl gave birth in a humble beginning in a barn. She gave birth to the Son of God; she gave birth to the Rescuer of us all, surrounded by shepherds and common people.

What a miraculous night! Love was born! I watched with awe. I carried that love with me and have guarded and nurtured that love for over two thousand years!

But my heart is breaking. Change has happened. The message has been lost. Now, instead of earth's people celebrating the birth of awesome love, they are frantically "shopping" for over-indulgent gifts and they are avoiding entirely the celebration I bring – the reminder that this is a time to remember the Child in a manger so long ago, who would grow to be a fisherman of souls and the Lamb of God whose blood would cleanse and cover those same souls.

How I weep today at the profound pathos Christmas has become. My heart broke at the chaos of "Black Friday" and knowing that one that I watched over died at the feet of frenzied shoppers looking for a "gift." I cried to God with weary soul and wretched aching for all involved.

May God bless you, who blithely stepped on one of His favorite children, for you are one of his favorites, too. May God bless the soul stomped upon by a crowd of hysterical madness, insanity, spurred by greed.

I am the Spirit of Christmas. I am a whisper in your ear. Hear me. Hear my plea. Turn your eyes to the amazing night over two thousand years ago when Christ was born. Turn your heart to that humble beginning of Amazing Grace, the giver of Life.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. (1 Corinthians 13:13 NIV)

His Humble Messenger

Forgettable Christmas

When my boys were growing up, we always had a real tree. I didn't have any extra money, so I would wait until Christmas Eve and find a tree lot with a scattering of Charlie Brown trees. I am not ashamed to admit I had a madness to my method. I usually got the tree for free or for little money, like five bucks. It helped that the three of us looked like orphans, Mama orphan and her two little orphans, huge eyes, hollow cheeks (but rosy just the same), worn coats that looked like they needed to go out in the garbage behind Goodwill, not in Goodwill. The decorations were handmade. I also used old Christmas cards and cut out balls, bells, angels, and Santa's and strung them on the tree. Very frugal and creative.

When my boys were 20 and 21, my Dad was very ill. On my son's 21st birthday, December 10, my Mom called to say Dad was dying and didn't have long. So I rushed to Eugene, Oregon along with my sister from Seattle. We played with, cared for, and loved and petted our Dad for his final days. Nine days later, after a bittersweet, beautiful, and terrible time with our Dad, he slipped away. Mom, my sister, and I watched the hearse drive away down the road, we silently waved, said goodbye, and immediately went into a rote mode. We gathered up all the clothes that needed washing in the house and drove to a Laundromat and washed several loads of clothes like we had nothing better to do with our time. It was so eerie and unreal – there were a couple people in there, doing their laundry and we just sat, numb, stoic – I kept thinking "do you know my Dad died?" It was ethereal.

I took a Greyhound bus home, arriving the next morning, the 20th of December. After sitting around in a fog for a couple days, I realized I had to do something for Christmas. My oldest was in the Army, stationed in Korea. The Red Cross brought him home because my Dad was his main father figure. I decided I wanted to have some semblance of Christmas spirit in the house. But I couldn't muster up the spirit. Christmas in 1993 was a real afterthought.

Finally I raced to Wards in the evening; a spur of the moment, last minute thing. I ran through the store and bought three of everything, one each for my sons, one for my significant other.

And then I found an artificial tree in the back of the upper floor of Wards – all alone, all by itself. The store lights were dimming for all the shoppers to get done with it, buy it, pack it, take it, and just get out. The salesman came up to me as I was looking at that little artificial tree. He said it was 60% off and now only nineteen bucks. I bought it.

Ran home, wrapped shirts, sweaters, slippers. Slammed the tree inside a tree stand, decorated it quickly with every decoration I could find, discovered that the lights actually worked this year, for some unknown reason, and called it good.

That year we were having my mother-in-law over and her mother, who was 93 years old. I couldn't cook. Well, I could cook, but poorly and I plainly just did not want to and in any case I had nothing to make. So we decided to go out to dinner. On Christmas. We went to Granny's Buffet on the north side and were shooed away by the line that went a block down the sidewalk. We tried fast food places. We drove all over town trying to find something open for Christmas, all the time I am mentally reviewing my freezer and I know all I have are ice cream and jalapeño pepper poppers.

We ended up at a new Chinese Restaurant that I will never name because I could be sued. It was dreadful. Nobody spoke English. They just opened THAT day. We waited an hour for anybody to take our order, the place was packed. We waited for an hour for our barbecued pork. Then we waited another hour for our food. While we were waiting, a family of about 20 Asians walked through the restaurant to the kitchen and disappeared. We assumed that they were eating OUR dinner. A waitress flew through the front door, tied an apron on and then came to our table to check on our order. She was from Spokane and they hired her over the phone because she could speak English. I wanted to leave but I didn't know what to do with Grandma. Ninety-three. She couldn't go much longer without food. And my soldier son was fighting the smell of kimshee (fermented cabbage in holes in the ground; a constant odor all around him 24 hours a day). The sooner he ate and we were out of there, the happier we would all be.

The restaurant is still open after 15 years – it might have improved.

So that was our Christmas, and that little tree is still the tree I use. (I now do all my shopping for Christmas in September in case some traumatic emergency befalls me.) (I also stock my freezer with enough food to last a month.)

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Collection Obsession

I have a collection of collectibles obsession. I am an eclectic collector.

I'm not sure if it is a bad thing or a good thing.

The good thing is – I know a little bit and sometimes a lot about glassware, pottery, Betty Boop, Duncan Miller, Fenton animals, Mickey Mouse, John Deere Tractors, children's porcelain tea sets made in the early 1940s, Santa Claus statues, and other Christmas items like snow globes, music boxes, Moose, miniature tree decorations, and Mr. Christmas decorations. Oh, and Liberty Falls Americana villages with pewter figurines.

A "score" would be two in one – Santa on a John Deere tractor; or a Santa on a musical John Deere tractor – or my best – A (1) musical (2) snow globe of (3) Santa on a (4) John Deere tractor with a (5) moose riding a miniature Santa train around the base of the Snow Globe. (I don't collect trains, but my brother does.)

I have a huge collection of Fenton Glass animals – they are on my piano. I don't have any duplicates – that's the goal. I have a pink elephant, a blue cat, a green frog, a cobalt blue kitten, an amber deer and several others. I'm looking for a hippopotamus and not sure what color.

I have a collection of Duncan Miller fluted glassware that is done in a Canterbury pattern. The glass is old enough to have manganese in it – pre World War I. The sun makes the manganese change color from clear to a soft lavender or a pale blue. In newer glass, the manganese was removed and used during the war effort.

I have probably two dozen miniature tea sets from the 40s on up. I found that it was easier to find miniature tea pots or a single cup and saucer. So I revamped my collecting to whole sets or to one tea cup and saucer or one tea pot with lid – so I have 40 or so unmatched solitary pieces from sets.

The bad thing: No space. I do not have a big enough house with the number of shelves needed to display all my collections without it looking like a flea market. So, I'm rotating them. Right now, I am in the Fenton animal theme. In two weeks, I will go for the Santa - Music Box - Snow Globe – Miniature tree decorations theme.

This is all to say to my friends, you WANT to pull my name for the Christmas exchange. I am so easy to shop for.

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Growing

Growing

The boys are growing faster and faster
every day, it seems.
They have moved up from Teddy Bears, trucks, and Lego’s,
Their interests now lie in girls,
How to get them
How to avoid them.
And pimples,
How do you get them
How to avoid them
I enjoy their height, their long arms and gangly legs.
But I miss the winters of their infancy,
Their little tiny bodies stuffed into all kinds of woollies,
Mittens, and gloves, and hats, and boots,
And snow pants, and over-coats,
Waddling waist deep in the snow,
Looking like creatures from Star Wars, like Ewoks.
Here they are, taller than me,
Growing taller,
Walking always out the door
Someday to have fat little Ewoks of their own.
ages 6 and 7

(c) D. Jean Buchanan

Working Mother's Lament

Working Mother's Lament

Hectic mornings are such a common thing,
Rise and shine,
Fly to the kitchen, start the oatmeal,
But one son wants Cheerios instead.
He gets oatmeal (and a kiss),
But, he’d rather have Cheerios.
Fly to the bathroom, brush their hair, their teeth,
don't forget to brush my own hair, own teeth.
Put make-up on, rush to find one son’s lost shoe,
(it’s somewhere. . .)
Lay out boys’ clothes, ask them kindly to dress themselves
For a change.
Rush to my room, dress in whatever is still clean,
Must remember to wash clothes (tonight, maybe).
Rush to their room, they’re not dressed.
Please get dressed,
And find your shoe!
Rush to car, warm it up, rush back to bedroom,
Bend down, get them dressed
(but I won’t do it tomorrow),
And find lost shoe.
Socks don't match, maybe no one will notice.
Rush car through town, nobody is likewise rushing.
Damn.
Leave sons off at sitter after two hugs, two kisses, two loves.
Arrive at office, coffee, relax, remember. . . .
I forgot to tie their shoes,
But I tied mine in a double knot.

Ages 6 & 7

(c) D. Jean Buchanan

Weird things your kids do

I have never ever shared this story with another soul. My boys were 6 and 7 when I had minor surgery. Well, what I had was, I had my tubes tied. I loved my little boys – but they were total boys and I didn't want to have two more like them, so I had my tubes tied. It was to be a short, in and out, slice and dice teeny surgery and I'd be home again in four hours, fulfilling my Mommy role with aplomb. That is before I discovered that I am a tad bit allergic to anesthesia. I'm not really allergic – I am just plain nauseated by the whole thing, all day long, every 15 minutes.

So, finding out that I was pretty much totally incapacitated, a very close girl friend came by to watch the boys and let me rest. She brought dinner, too – Kentucky Fried Chicken. Yummmm. Only my little aversion to anesthesia seemed to cover chicken too. So the boys and Sherry ate to their hearts content.

I vegged on the couch being careful to keep my nose pinched shut.

And then Sherry went to the bathroom to wash little boys' hands free of chicken grease.

She came back and said – "so, I realize every time you've gone in there that you have had your head hanging down in preparation for praying to the porcelain god – but you have missed some interesting artwork on the ceiling. . . ."

My curiosity peeked – I shuffled in to the bathroom and looked at the ceiling and tried to fit it in my brain. What is that? What are those things? It looked like white rats with tails splotched to the ceiling – a dozen of them. All over the ceiling. And then I saw my now empty box of tampons on the floor. Those creatures were soggy tampons, soaked in water (thank God), and flung to the ceiling with little boy hands, splayed out like spread eagled squashed mice, tails hanging down in defeat.

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The Turkey and the Chicken

When my sons were 8 and 9, they were in Boy Scouts and we had the annual bake sale/raffle, Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I remember this day very well. I had $6.00 to my name and knew I couldn't possibly afford a turkey and all the trimmings. It was going to be a pretty grim Thanksgiving. I was eyeballing chickens and wondering how fooled the boys would be.

There was a family at the bake sale that evening that I had kind of put on a shelf in the back of my mind – affluent, intelligent, married (I was the only divorcee in the room of 20 families), and beautiful with equally beautiful twin boys, age 9. I wasn't in their realm.

The scouts were supposed to make their own cake. Home made by the boys. There would be a prize for the best cake – a 20 pound fresh turkey, and all the trimmings including a Pumpkin Pie.

My mind slithered back to the soap box derby, where the boys are supposed to make a screaming racing car out of a block of wood, *by*themselves* At the derby, the twins showed up with a cherry-red, cherried-out, speed demon race car that won hands down! My son showed up with a hand carved by him (with a little inadequate help from me), lemon colored (for a reason) obviously home-made car that wouldn't even roll an inch without help.

So here we are at the bake sale/raffle, the rich twins sporting an absolutely beautiful beehive cake with yellow and white striped icing, and little furry bees on toothpicks "hovering" over the beehive which looked to be done by some elite French chef. And our cake, Mr. Happy Face, which was bumpy and wavy, black frosting smeared into a half-assed circle with a crooked little smile and two globs for eyes – the saddest cake I have ever seen.

I grumbled to myself. I had decided I was going to buy the cake back for $2.00, leaving me $4.00. I could still get that damned chicken.

It was getting darned close to disaster time in my family as our misshapen cake, made totally by my son, was sitting forlorn and lonely as all the other cakes were being raffled off – it was down to the beehive cake or the happy face cake.

Bee Family bought my cake AND theirs!

I felt a strange twisting in my gut – I was bitter and angry and jealous and peeved and crabby. They could have bought all 20 cakes! And of course, Bee Family won the turkey dinner. It was a test for me to practice sweetness in the face of total disaster.

I told myself that this was a good thing. I still had SIX dollars to buy my "chicken" dinner. And spare change to get two ice cream cones for two pretty sad little boys.

We got to our car and I was loading the kids in, when Mr. Bee came up to me with this HUGE box, the hump of a gigantic turkey peering over the edge; potatoes, stuffing, Pumpkin Pie, the WORKS. "We've already got our turkey – this would just go to waste – would you mind taking it off our hands?"

Well, I tell ya, I could hardly talk to him as I choked up and teared up and tried to wrestle all those nasty feelings that were turning around in my head.

There are many things to be thankful for. I am always thankful that my thoughts didn't come out of my mouth.

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Bumper Cars

So, an interesting thing happened to me just five minutes into my drive home last night. I could see the lane in front of me opening up to two lanes, so went for it. The driver in front of me, though, didn't see the two lane opening and was hell bent for leather to dive into the Taco Time parking lot and not signal his intent. Our two cars met at my left front bumper, which scraped, scratched, and clawed at his right-side doors. Because I was too impatient to actually WAIT the five more feet to get to the additional lane, I got a $175 ticket. Stupid me! So – two little anniversaries here. The last time I got a ticket was maybe 30 years ago. The last time I wrecked my car was 11 years ago to the day. Happy Anniversary!

My history with cars is a rollercoaster ride. It's always something.

I have had a car that had frequent flat tires until I could finally afford a new wheel. I mean, once a week!!!

I have had a couple cars go through a quart of oil a week, to the point that I automatically got a quart of 10/40 oil along with bread and milk – it had become a staple.

I had a car that went through starters like candy. It was so bad that my significant other (coincidentally, my mechanic as well), showed me how to jump start my starter to keep on going. So, there I'd be, in the middle of an intersection at a light now turned green, and me in my work dress and heels, leaning inside the engine with a screwdriver touching the starter and sparks snapping at my fingers as I would jump back and the engine would start. I was my very own Keystone Cops entertainment. This got even worse when my emergency brake handle fell off. Then, I was given a pair of pliers so I could pull the emergency brake on; leap out of the car; jump start the starter; and drive away.

So I finally got a little Suzuki Swift. Great little car. I got extra warranty on it because Mechanic Man was not ever going to hand me another tool to fix something in my car. It did me well. It was 18 years old and still running great, 40 mpg, when, in the middle of the night, a drunk driver crashed in one whole side of the car from front to back and pushed it up against boulders on the other side, continuing the carnage on that side as well. It looked like it had snuck itself to a demolition derby, played itself to death, and then was dropped back in its parking place acting all innocent, like nothing happened. It still sits in the garden at Mechanic Man's house waiting to be rebuilt.

Now this. Almost $3,000 in damages, can you believe it??

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Higgledy-Piggledy

To be organized is to be "prepared, planned, ordered, controlled, well thought-out, structured."

All things I am not.

I have many bosses and I get their baggage too (their specialized assistants). I find files, search for files, file files, pull files, close files (in your dreams). They ALL keep their files that they are working on in order received – which is NOT alphabetical or numerical! They also have mysterious piles of files in stacks on chairs, tables, couches, floor and any space in their office that is big enough for a new pile. I blitz through each office daily and try to memorize the various locations of a myriad of files that are in no sensible order.

My biggest hurdle though is being organized. Ha! And how do I make each one of those bosses and each one of those specialized assistants feel like they are primo number one, top dog, big kahuna, king/queen of the universe?

What I am is higgledy-piggledy. And, yes, that is in the dictionary!

At the end of the day, this is how I feel:



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Friendship: the Staff of Life

I have mentioned my friends before. I value my friends like nothing else. They are someone to lean on, listen to, cry on, giggle with, play with, and hold high as exemplary people that make me better than I would be without them.

I have recently developed a friendship with someone new - a freelance writer for the Spokesman-Review and several other publications. Her name is Cindy Hval. She enriches me and subtly reminds me to see the lighter things in life. What sets her apart from others is her sense of humor, quick wit, and eloquent compassion.

I invited her to share dinner with my friends a month ago; she in turn wrote a column about us – a sequel to a Spokesman-Review article about us done in 1993 – so 15 years later, we are hardly changed at all. If anything, we imbue the phrase, we aren't getting older, we are getting better.

I am one of the luckiest people on earth to have so many very close and dear friends, and to count Cindy as one of them.

Please read the beautiful Article by Cindy Hval in the Spokesman-Review today.

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What goes around comes around

Are you a bad neighbor??

I have what I call the Neighbor From Hell. We moved into our two houses the same weekend 20 years ago, under the same county program to help first homeowners. For 20 years, NFH has risen at sunrise every weekend to run every power toy he owns: leaf blower, lawn mower, weed whacker, chain saw. This will start at 6:00 in the morning and by the time I have been thoroughly annoyed and wide awake and have slammed the window shut (after debating which is worse, the oppressive heat in an unairconditioned house or the obnoxious clatter and clamor from ten feet away), NFH will put all his power toys back in the garage and slink into the house, never to be seen for the rest of the day. I've thought of calling the police – but as soon as I lift up the phone – you got it – he's gone.

NFH also tosses limbs from my trees that land in his yard, back into my yard. He stands on the roof of his garage and pushes leaves off the roof over into my yard. He trims branches from my trees hanging over his yard and tosses them into my yard – and not just by the property line. NOOOOO, he heaves them to the middle of my yard. If I would approach him, he would slither back into his cave and hide.

Finally, he did the unthinkable – he hacked down my wild rose bush that grew along my driveway, on my property, but next to his patio. He hacked what was a ten-foot tall beautiful wild rose bush to the ground with just a two-inch stub showing. He did this three times over the spring.

The poor thing would try to recover, grow a few inches, and WHACK, down to the ground. And try again and WHACK, down to the ground.

This guy is a piece of work. Finally, I threatened to take him to small claims court this last spring, after his millionth desecration of my wild rose bush. I had to mail a notice to him since I could never catch him outside, nor would he answer his door.

Wonder of wonders, he responded by immediately putting up a fence.

I danced a jig.

About four weeks ago he put up a For Sale sign in front of his house.

I danced another jig out on the sidewalk. Things are looking GOOD!

Then, last week I was raking leaves and uncovered my rose bush, hacked AGAIN within the last week. I cursed, flailed my rake, cursed some more, said really bad words, and finally muttered, "I wish you would just DIE."

So, this weekend, his obituary was in the Sunday paper. Don't get excited – I don't have awesome powers. He died two days before I wished it upon him.

There's a moral here. Don't mess with thy neighbor – especially if she is menopausal.

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President Obama!

Yes We Can!

Wow! What a phenomenal day Election Day was! Even my significant other who voted for McCain felt an emotional high at realizing that history, extraordinary, unparalleled, over the top, history was being made right in front of his eyes.

I felt that McCain's speech was very gracious and exceptional. He was genteel and kind. In the end, he asked the nation to unite as one. That's, bottom line, all I want, too.

While he was talking so magnanimously, it occurred to me that if his campaign was run in the same way – with kindness, generosity, talking about his issues and his platform – if his campaign would have left out any of the negative and questionable non-facts on Obama, this could have been a very tight race. He could have been a contender.

I think Obama is a very kind man, very steadfast and constant in his determined effort to relentlessly overcome hurdles and obstacles in his way. He never went down to the gutter level of the innuendos and smears hurled at him. He stepped over them. I imagine that is how he will handle his presidency, too. He will not mire himself in rumors – he will instead keep his eye on the goal of unifying our country, healing many rifts. I truly believe he will have a very positive impact on not just our country but on the world. He inspires me!

I came to work this morning and I, too, received an email from Barak, thanking me for my donation to his campaign. What did I donate? $25. That's all. $25. That is where the millions came from that supported his campaign – from average people like me.

Yes We Can!

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Another OldTimer's Moment

So, I decided to bake turnovers for my Significant Other and myself. Set the oven for 475 degrees, mentioned to SO that I would probably set off the fire alarm, put the two apple turnovers in the oven, and went to the couch and set up my nest of blanket, pillow, book and wiggled in. 25 minutes later the buzzer went off for the oven.

"What the hell is that?" I cried. "Why'd you set the timer?" I accused SO.

He looked at me like I was totally nutso - and in a flash of miraculous insight, I finally remembered that it was ME - a mere 25 minutes ago.

Then I pulled out the not-quite-burnt-yet turnovers and went back to the box that said "turn oven down to 400 degrees as soon as you put the turnovers in the oven."

And finally, in shock and a daze, I put the glass pan into the sink and just *started* to pour water on it and it exploded in a million razor sharp little slivers of glass.

Boy, this is going to be a bumpy ride.

And, yes, the fire alarm went off without a hitch!

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Don't Touch That Dial

There is a double standard in two-car families. Have you noticed? My mate has a car (or three or four) and a truck. I am "allowed" to drive his car, with the firm stipulation that I cannot touch anything in it except the steering wheel. It is verboten! However, once every six months, HE will drive my car (I own one and only one) and the next time I am at the wheel – everything, I mean EVERYTHING, has been changed. The side windows that I spent 30 minutes to a week trying to get just right, the rear view mirror, the seat (I'm 5'2" and he is so much taller than me that clouds are around his head), and the radio (which now plays country while I listen to oldies). I never change the station. Ever. I don't even know my station's call numbers. I again spend a week or more trying to "seek" my station. I finally found it and put it in memory. But the thing with the side mirrors drives me crazy – I have to be driving to see that they are adjusted right. I think there is a law against people (especially non-multi-taskers like me) driving 60 miles per hour while fiddling with the side mirror adjustment button on the left while looking in the side view mirror on the right to see if the vehicle is really closer than it appears, and that it isn't MY car's right rear fender. It's one thing to ask you guys to return the toilet seat to the "sitting" position – when you get that managed, would you please train yourself to do the same when it comes to your mate's car? It gives new meaning to "he really knows how to push my buttons."

Senior Citizen With Benefits

Recently I discovered a buffet place in Spokane Valley that has what is called "Senior Afternoon Delight" with really low prices for all you can eat between 2:00 and 3:45. For $6.50, a senior can stuff themselves to the gills. And this place thinks "seniors" are anyone 55 and older. Heck! I qualify! Who would have thought this??

It's with mixed blessings that I can be a "senior." One – it means I am OLD. When I look in the mirror, that isn't a 59-year-old lady looking back at me. She's 40 if she's a day. (Which makes me four when I had my oldest son.) Being a senior explains all the little aches and pains. But I'm going to dwell in my happy denial that it is nothing, it will go away. And pop more arthritis-strength Tylenol. Being a senior means memory loss, creaky voice, poor eyesight – I may have to give up these Rite-Aid glasses for the real prescription strength, doctor approved spectacles.

But this is what I discovered at the Senior Afternoon Delight. I am still a baby to the majority of the people that were in there. I was about the only one without a cane, a walker, or a wheelchair. And I eat way more than any ten of them. I was a mad cow – devouring steak (I have my own teeth), mashed potatoes and gravy (my cholesterol is still under the radar), desserts up the ying yang, pasta, chicken, pork, beef, sweet rolls, dinner rolls, cinnamon rolls, something piled high with brown sugar and butter, pies, cakes, brownies, fudge. While all around me are plates of bits of salad, peas, beans, and other good-for-you stuff – nothing touching something else and no multi-layers of Food! Food! Food!

Finally I found a benefit to being "old." Now where is that bottle of Tums.

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Saving Daylight Time After Time

I go through this every year – the time change. Twice a year we go through this ordeal of having Daylight Savings Time and then NOT having Daylight Savings Time. Isn't it a bit incongruous that "daylight savings" would END just as winter starts??? Shouldn't we have more light in winter, not less? And the little sayings: "Spring forward, Fall back" just doesn't work for me. I have this weird visual mindset – and I can never remember if it's that phrase or my own self-acclimated phrase (because I am naturally weird) of "Spring back, fall forward" which is how I go through life. I spring. I trip. I skip. I fall. I start up again. And I never ever fall back – that's kind of like quitting. So, here we go. Only five more evenings of light while I travel home. Next week, a week from today, those who haven't sent in their ballots will be voting in the dark. Is that a Freudian slip???

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To Remember, or Not

I have gone from fairly detail-oriented and highly organized to totally discombobulated in just six months. Am I sick? Do I have Alzheimer's? Do I really want to know?

Last week I was almost out the door to go to the store when it occurred to me that I was slightly off kilter. Tipsy. Lopsided. I had a high heel on one foot and a flat sandal on the other. I had walked through the house that way, really not noticing, as I am a bit tipsy all the time. What if I ended up at the store that way?

You've done it too. You've gone to the fridge, opened it, and then stood there with glassy eyes wondering why in the heck you were in the fridge in the first place?

I've done that way too many times. Recently I was sorting through my costume jewelry, putting each piece in little plastic bags. A couple days later, I went back to my jewelry box to look for a particular bracelet. And I came upon a longer bag with three bracelets placed in it side by side. Hey, that wasn't ME that was so organized. Who did that??? I couldn't remember one single second of organizing my bracelets that way only two days before.

The topper – I cashed my incentive check for $600. I wanted one very crisp hundred dollar bill for a friend's daughter's wedding gift. A week after the wedding I was getting ready for a trip to Seattle and was going to use the remaining $500 for the trip. It was No Where in my purse. No Where! And then it occurred to me that I must have had one of my brain freezes again and horror of horrors, I must have given the bride my entire $600. I didn't even give my own son that much when he got married! I even cried on the shoulders of my friends – how stupid could I get??

This weekend I had time to read a book I hadn't been able to touch for about a month. I opened it and out from page 99 came five one hundred dollar bills. And instantly I remembered I put it in the book so I wouldn't lose it. And promptly forgot that I had done it.

So again, sick? Alzheimer's? Dementia? Senility?

Some things you just don't want to know about. On the other hand, maybe if I find out, I'll forget that I found out and nothing will change. This could be the start of something new. I could buy one book and read it. And read it. And read it. And it would always be new. If you are losing your memory but can't remember if you are really losing your memory, who would know? Is ignorance really bliss?

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A Special Celebration

I took my time choosing just the right outfit. It had to be “to the nines” and red or purple. I pulled out my purple velvet floor length dress, picked through my jewelry and found three long red-stoned necklaces and two ruby red bracelets. I added to this the matching earrings. Topped it all off with a red feather boa and ended the whole flashy display with a beautiful red hat. I looked like a party ready to happen.

Several of us took special time this morning to get similarly dressed. We are Red Hats, in particular, we are the Scarlett Snickerdoodles of the Red Hat Society. We do things together once a month – fun things. We go to antique stores and garage sales, we go to teas and plays, we travel to other towns and experience their idea of teas, antique stores, garage sales, and plays. That’s what Red Hats do – we play. Today is a special day, though, and I can’t describe it as playing. One of our members made a special request for us to deck all up in our red and purple splendor. Today is her memorial service.

We were gathering together today to celebrate her. A week ago she passed quietly away from ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Her passing was so unlike her. No dancing. No skipping. No throwing back her head and laughing out loud.

Another member was grateful and thankful – boisterous even – that our friend was finally able to be free of the devastating effects of ALS, a disease with absolutely no cure and only certain death. I have had a hard time dealing with this – with her loss – and finding joy in her death.

The pastor related that at her graveside all her grandchildren happened to spy a deer leaping through the green grass near where she was laid. It was a sign! She was the spirit of that deer, bounding free of ALS, totally free to dance among the spirits.

So we gathered together and sat with her family and her friends and celebrated her life. ALS stole her from us, ALS stole her legs, her voice, her speech, her tap dance, her life. But as we sat together, leaning towards each other, touching each other – we started to laugh. We started to bring up all her qualities and she had no bad qualities – she was like each one of us in so many ways. She was opinionated, ornery, stubborn, funny, witty, danced through her day, sang at the top of her lungs in the shower, made Snow Angels in the snow, hugged babies, and laughed. And we all are just like her in all her ways. It’s trite to say she’s gone but not forgotten. But when I look at any other Scarlett Snickerdoodle and the flamboyant red hat, purple top, feathers, and flowers – I instantly see her. She is truly in my heart. And I could honestly say that I feel like dancing.

This is for you, dear Lois Watts

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Motorhead Land

I was off to a semi-annual trek to Monroe Washington where the biggest swap meet I have ever been to is held. Did I say this is held twice of year? It's to die for if you are a motor head even if you only polish your car. There is everything you ever wished for – bolts, steering wheels, steering columns, crank shafts, transmissions, car bodies from old old old to fairly new ('72). A gazillion carburetors. I have never seen so many carburetors. What is it with carburetors anyway that they are so prolific at a swap meet? If it's greasy and fits in a car, truck, motorcycle, boat – it's there. It's acres and acres of greasy parts. (I could betcha it's miles and MILES of car parts.)

A couple weeks ago my significant other, Lovey, proudly presented me with my own little cart with a hard plastic milk box secured by bungee cords. He has since referred to it as my own personal cart. "There's Jeanie's cart." "I gave Jeanie her own cart." And I'll tell you why it's mine. I get to bring it with me wherever I go – not realizing until Saturday morning that the gift giver would be frequently telling me to move my cart out of the way, keep it right next to me or out of the way of parts gawkers. They don't "see" the cart for all the parts – kind of a forest for the trees. That cart is invisible to the diehard motor head. He could trip and fall and kill himself while he is drooling over a rusted out muffler for a '49 Chev.

We would (er, Motorhead Lovey would) steadily fill up my cart and when it was full, I would trek out to where the car was parked about a mile away from the Mile-High, Mile-Square parts plaza and unload my cart.

Heard while trudging along with my cart:

Two old guys were walking beside me with their own cart. One says to the other, "Do you want a cookie?" They stop and he roots around in his cart - further and further to the bottom. "Found them! . . . . . Smashed."

There's a moral here: Always put your cookies on TOP of crankshafts.

Years ago I bought Lovey a couple of walkie-talkie things so I could drop behind him and actually look at girly stuff. Before the walkie-talkie things, I would glance down at a Duncan Miller Canterbury bowl, check the price, dicker with the vender and lower the price, and Lovey would be GONE. I'd look and look for him and finally find him staring at me (he was focusing his brain in my direction, knowing he has a hypnotic affect on me and I am drawn to him by some kind of invisible ray). "How could you miss me!?" he would yell, "I'm the biggest guy standing in the middle of the pathway." Yeah, but, I'm a short Hobbit and all I see are millions of plaid shirts with greasy hands sticking out of them.

We've moved on to cell phones. I lose him, all I have to do is press "2" and call him. Sometimes I can even hear his phone ringing, so I know he's really close.

The weather was wicked cold Saturday. I packed enough for three days and Saturday I looked at all those extra clothes and made an executive decision. I wore everything I packed. I topped this off with gloves, a hat, and a hoodie to cover the hat (to keep in what little body heat I had). The only thing I lacked was a kleenex for my suddenly running nose. There are food booths scattered throughout the acreage so I managed napkins when I needed them.

Gas was $3.19 in Moses Lake. Tada!!!! I came home with a miniature tea set in a miniature tea pot shaped box. Lovey came home with tools – very, very heavy tools. Why do I know this?

Well, I'm the one who pulled the cart.

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You know it is almost winter, because. . . . .

1) Your coat is buried in the back of the closet and you just don't want to break down and really admit that winter is coming, so you wear your black sweater that really doesn't stave off the cold.
2) You were saving all those luscious tomatoes on the vine so you could process them next weekend and this morning you woke up to discover a killer frost came through at 22 degrees and zapped them all to shiny, transparent, globes ready to rot right there on the vine.
3) Your tires look ok to you but you know if you put good snow tires on or even studded tires, it won't snow for ten years but if you leave them alone, we'll have a record blizzard before our children make it out the door to go Trick or Treating.
4) You have a gas furnace from hell and it takes someone with an iron will and total lack of caring for their life to light the dang thing without it exploding in your face, so you bring out the little bathroom space heater and try to heat the entire house while sitting in front of it enveloped in your king-sized comforter.
5) You think seriously about starting a fire in the bathtub and just living in the bathroom.
6) You have ten foot high piles of leaves waiting for your summer lawn guy to get in gear and start winterizing your home for $10 a day. What do you expect???
7) You start to brush your teeth and discover the water has frozen in all the lines
8) You move in with your significant other because he is a big hot teddy bear and you just don't need all this get-warm stuff. It's built in!

What's on the Menu?

I have mentioned my four women friends who meet once a month for dinner. We've been doing this for 30+ years. I came into it last, when I was 35, 29 years ago. We are tighter than sisters and have been each other's confidante and motivator ever since. As we have grown older, the various subjects of our monthly dinners have morphed through men, marriage, divorce, children, teens, dating (them, not the teens), debt (our children's, not ours), etc.

Through the years we have also aged and in the aging process we have acquired aches and pains and what I call{drum roll} "Pet Diseases." We each have something with a capitalized name: Lupus, Parkinson's, Polycystic Kidney Disease (that's mine – isn't it cute?), and Breast Cancer (survivor of). The fifth woman in our group has depression so we have capitalized it to Depression (probably from listening to the rest of us with something clinically bad enough we see special doctors that handle only that particular disease).

Our Parkinson's gal (I'll call her Parkie) was relating a story to us at dinner a couple months ago that she had with her doctor, who presented her with the following scenario:

What would you do if God showed up with a plate of "the disease of the week" and offered you to replace your Parkinson's with what was on the plate?

That question had a huge impact on all of us, me for sure.

I just wrote a little about my friend Lois. (See Lois Leaves.) She received a Disease Plate with Mini-Stroke on it and then the plate got switched to ALS, without her even getting to choose which one she wanted.

We all will get a Plate sometime in our life, nobody is immune. How about it? If you have one thing on your Plate, would you gladly switch it for the other Plate?

I decided I would keep my "pet" disease, thank you very much.

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Lois Leaves

My friend, Lois, beat the devil of ALS to the ground on Friday and then walked into the arms of Jesus and left that useless body behind. She was so through with it. She took her favorite hat with her that she wore to all our Red Hat gatherings. In sparkling letters it said "Bitch." She was very fond of that hat.

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My son, the Explorer

When he was about 5 or 6 years old, my youngest was in the morning session of kindergarten. I would have frequent parent-teacher meetings with his obviously frustrated kindergarten teacher. Tim was always late to school even though I made sure he was ready and left the house when I left for work. It would take him 30 minutes to an hour to walk the two blocks to school.

There were things to do, places to go, bugs to meet. He was utterly fascinated with nature. With leaves. With blades of grass. With bugs of all kinds of legs. There was never a bug he didn’t like. (Frequently they would reside in his pockets for me to discover on laundry day – dead or alive.)

He looked for four-leaf clovers and would examine hundreds of inches of lawns for that prized find. He would pet every dog and cat that came his way. Besides bugs, there was never an animal that he didn’t love. He could charm a wild animal, I am sure.

He would greet little old ladies out weeding their gardens and check their bugs. Many happily relinquishing some centipede or caterpillar or spider.

He would arrive at school with dirt on his hands and face. Teach wanted to know if I EVER gave him a bath. {sigh} She didn’t understand that the second a boy leaves the bathtub, he steps in dirt. It’s inevitable.

The thing is, where does this fascination with all of life go when we become adults? Have you ever leaped off the front porch in your business suit and pounce with joy on discovering a multicolored bug in your yard? Or gather four-leaf clovers by the handful?

We are way too serious today. It’s time to get into some dirt and play!

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What Would You Do?

Eeek - it's been ten days since I've written.

I love my life because usually I am my own comic relief. I am channeling Lucille Ball most of the time. Things happen. Can't explain it.

But lately, life and the process of living has been depressed, much like our economy. Have you noticed that nobody is really saying we are in a depression???? It's a recession, they say. I had to look up both words.

Depression – a slump, a recession (I hate words that define other words that I'm trying to define in comparison. How can Webster do that????), slump, downturn, fall. Ok – those all can be applied to my poor skeleton of a 401(k) plan.

Recession – depression (see????), slump, downturn, collapse, decline – Well, this definitely applies to our situation today. Maybe there is no difference?

Anyway – back to depression – I'm kind of in the human depression of despair and hopelessness. I've mentioned my friend before, who has ALS. I have started taking care of her Friday mornings before I went to work. She now needs 24/7 care and our Red Hat chapter is taking turns helping out her husband so he can go to his day job.

I just got off the whirligig of doing the same kind of care for my mother-in-law; doing the same for someone my own age is startling. I'm kind of paralyzed in what to say to my friend. She's the one with a sense of humor. (I like to think I have a sense of humor – but it's hard to be funny when you see your friend's body steadily slipping away, muscle by muscle.) She can't speak, can't walk, can't stand. The first thing that happened was that she slipped out of bed onto a foot stool. By the time I got to her, I was horrified to find out that I am not wonder woman like I thought. I had no strength whatsoever to pick her up and put her back to bed. After several attempts to lift her, I was debating calling 9-1-1 just to have someone pick her up so I could get her into her motorized scooter. She flung her arm out towards the front door and I asked if she wanted me to get the neighbor. Yes! Yes! Yes! She nodded in a frantic sort of way. (At the same time it was finally registering with me that she was naked. She well knew it – I was just getting the hang of it – she kept patting the bed and I didn't get it – well her clothes were folded at the end of the bed. How could I not see that she was naked???) We threw clothes on, I raced next door and woke up the neighbor, who blearily came over and between the two of us, she was miraculously back in bed. Heavy sigh. The rest of the morning was pretty uneventful. We maneuvered into the living room and into her easy chair. The dog happily bouncing along beside her. Later she kept trying to get the dog to sit with her but he was focused on me. Finally she got out her only means of communication – a white board. And she wrote, "I have taught that dog everything he knows, but I forgot to teach him how to read." That whiteboard was her lifeline to the rest of us. She once wrote "I'm working on my bucket list." Her bucket is almost full.

I am signed up for Fridays, 7-9 in the morning. I promised her I would go directly to her bedroom and help her get up for the day, instead of waiting to find her squatting on the floor.

So, what kind of friend are you – and I mean this in a double-sided coin way. Would you help your naked friend with natural ease? On the other side, would you be a pleasant patient if a friend picked you up naked from the floor?

She and I decided that next time I even think of calling 9-1-1, I will call Hospice instead because they have promised to send the tallest, cutest, hottest firemen to our aid. She is making motions of fainting even now.

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Tribute to a Newspaper

There used to be two newspapers here in Spokane until one folded in the mid-80s. Recently the remaining paper has experienced huge layoffs, 25% of the staff that skated past the last layoff 11 months ago, got their tickets this week.

I want to offer a Eulogy of sorts, a tribute and acclamation of Spokane's The Spokesman Review and its entire staff, a tribute to the former Spokane Daily Chronicle, and praise for all newspapers everywhere, as the technology age of the internet erodes away the benefits of news print on paper, books, magazines, the ability to READ.

I have been in the newspaper world since I was born. My Dad graduated from the University of Idaho in journalism in 1948. I was born and we moved from Moscow to Lewiston where Dad made his debut as a reporter at the Lewiston Tribune. His friendships grew to include all the Tribune writers, photographers, linotype operators.

There is a story of when my dad invited the newsroom staff to his house for a cocktail party. All were young (in their 20s) and all brought their wives. Everyone put their hats in the hall closet and all the women put their purses on the closet floor. Fine times were had and people left giggling and slapping each other on the back.

Next day all the men, and I mean all of the men, showed up to retrieve their hats and their wives purses.

There was a family feeling, an open invitation to barbeque and play games in the park kind of feeling.

Dad got an offer from The Chronicle when I was six (1955) and we caravanned with a couple other families to Spokane – one, Bob Larrigan, started at The Spokesman Review, Dad (Don Rice), started at The Chronicle. Same building. Same owners.

I spent many, many hours at the paper building. Many field trips were taken to the paper simply because my Dad was a reporter. Another student was the son of a reporter for The Review (Petty – can't remember the first name). We would tour both areas and end up in the printer room where a man would make all our names out in individual lead "stamps." I still have mine.

The friendships continued to grow involving both papers. It was a great life.

My dad was a true "investigative reporter" and would often work very closely with cops, attorneys, and judges. He investigated as good as any of the best PI's around. There was a long history at the papers for honesty, integrity, and printing the truth. They lived by that old standard, "who, what, where, when, why, and how." They answered each one diligently, honestly, truthfully.

[From a blog I posted at earlier in the day:]

My dad was one of the editors of The Chronicle. His name was Don Rice. Any article with his byline was considered factual and objective. He worked there from 1955 to 1982. He was well respected by all media outlets in Spokane, including the Spokesman. Interestingly, his friends included both papers, all television stations, cops, lawyers, and judges. He was known for his integrity and objective approach to news. He was a reporter first, a writer second. He was my hero and a giant in my eyes. I adored him and looked up to him. He passed away in 1993. I wept when The Chronicle closed. You do know that the two papers were owned by the same family - the Cowles. I don't remember a competition between the two; they each had the opportunity to scoop before the other just because of timing. There was a lot of old news in The Chronicle from events the night before, just as there was a lot of old news in the Review from events from the morning before.
When I was in school, we would take field trips to The Chronicle/Review building. It had a beautiful elegant hallway that stretched from Sprague (Chronicle) to Riverside (Review). There was a kid in my class throughout grade school whose father did the sports section for the Review. We never seemed to pick sides, we simply went through both papers and had a great time!
There is nothing like the drumming of several people typing on ancient Royal typewriters on half sheets of paper, the humming of the teletype as the keys seemed to tap dance their urgent message. I was fascinated with that place.
Today, it is very sad that the Spokesman is letting go 25% of their staff. I relate to this very well, because 18 months ago my office did the same thing. We are still recovering from that, the loss of friends, losing floor space to other tenants, trying to adjust to Dilbert-like cubicles, and trying very hard to regain the camaraderie and sense of purpose we left behind.

So – here's a tribute to you, Spokesman-Review and to your wonderful people. You all have carried the torch that my father once carried. With dignity, respect, honesty, and integrity. Your marble hallways will be less noisy but the echoes of all the people who have passed through your halls is lingering still. The smell of my Dad's vanilla tobacco still leaves hints in the air. I can still see the giant paper rolls turning and gliding and getting printed every single day with great news, columns, comics, recipes, announcements of births, weddings, deaths. Every year there was a story for kids for the month of December that I clipped and saved. All of my siblings read the paper, really read it, because our Dad's name was a byline every day. All the writers, reporters, photographers, machine operators, all were celebrities!

In Memoriam

I have a good friend who has been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease). She is a member of my Red Hats group, the Scarlet Snickerdoodles. She put in a request today. She is planning her Memorial Service and wants to be sure that we attend in all our Red Hat Glory and plethora of red and purple garments, hats, gloves, pins, and whatever else red and purple we can drape ourselves in.

It socked me in the stomach and left me breathless. She's dying. She's not just terribly sick; she's over the top sick with a disease that there is no cure for. She is going to leave us soon and wants to plan a last big bash where she won't be attending.

If you were planning your own memorial, what would you do? What would you say?

Here's to Lois - my friend. Here's to a special person who is a friend to all who meet her, who has a daughter and granddaughters that adore her, who has a husband who thinks she's just tops; who is part of a group of nutty women who like to wear purple and big flamboyant hats.

Here's to Lois who only desires to make memories, lots of memories, everlasting memories.

Here is to my vibrant, living, breathing, very, very, very good friend. Lois.

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Write-in for Vice President

I am trying to figure out why I don't like Sarah Palin. It's not that I don't like her. I don't like what's happening with the 2008 election process with so much focus on this one person because "she" is a "woman" and, yada yada yada.

Am I jealous of her? I don't think so. Maybe it's because on the list of qualities for her, I can say the same things about myself. I don't see myself as Vice President material. So is it a low self esteem issue? What?

I don't wear lipstick. Not for any fashion statement – I just find it kind of yucky and will chew it off by the time I hit my desk. So I simply do not wear it. Since I am 59 years old and could have been wearing lipstick since I was 16 (in case my parents would let me), I could have saved enough money in not buying lipstick over the last 43 years, that I could have developed a huge 401(k) plan (moot point – with the stock market dropping 500 points and all the other recession nastiness we are experiencing right now). But hey! I could have saved a lot of money.

So it's not the lipstick. That's on her list. It's not on mine.

Here's my list.

• I'm a mother of two boys;
• I change my own flat tires (maybe that's not on her list)
• I change my own light bulbs, fix my house when needed (repair windows, paint, replace worn siding, clean out the pipes under the sink, catch and dump dead mice, catch and release all other living creatures).
• Not on my list: I don't shoot living breathing Bambi's or Bullwinkle's.
• Not on my list: I don't fish – worms hate me
• I was a single mother for most of my sons' upbringing (not on her list)
• I have made financial decisions by myself without a husband; I bought my own house under my own name; I paid cash for my car; I have friends to repair my car.
• I work at a day job; I work as a parent; I work as a homemaker; I am my own wife.
• I am experienced in time management, project management, child management, career advancement for my children, nurse and fireman for my children, chauffeur, cook, bottle washer, and home schooling in the evening after the public school gives them enough homework to keep them in a coma for a week.
• I am not a hockey mom – it's not in my budget; I am a cub scout mom which entailed more hand's on, dig in the cupboard and garage and find everything you need to help your son build a cherried out stock car out of a small piece of wood.

Ok, back to this question. Why does it bother me so much? I said the same things about Hillary that I am now thinking about Sarah.

I think it is all the hoopla over her lipstick statement vs. Obama's lipstick statement and then McCain saying Obama wasn't being specifically offensive to Palin in his lipstick statement (totally avoiding saying that he, McCain, was the first one to say the lipstick statement months before Palin even arrived). So all the news blips are all about who said what about whom and nothing about what.

I blame the media on this big time. They snatch a phrase or even a burp and blow it way out of proportion and sidestep substantive issues – like taxes, stem cell research, health care, social security, world peace.

Ok – I think my list is longer than her list. Should I run on the independent ticket? Can I run as Vice President or do I have to have a President run with me?

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Walking for a Friend

It was a beautiful sunny morning, perfect for a walk with friends. I arrived at 9:00 and donned my ret hat, took my sweater off to show my purple shirt and made my way to Mirabeau Meadows to join my other Red Hat friends from Scarlett Snickerdoodles. Whenever we gather, we have fun, we laugh, we giggle, we act silly, and we make a show of ourselves. People take our pictures, thinking we are some kind of circus act or parade performer. We are the Red Hats. We are getting up there in age and we are going to dance the whole way. We are not following rules and we are not going to be polite little old ladies with simpering smiles. We are going to wear purple – and pink and red and green and orange and we will do this with the most clash we can manage. We will wear feathers in our hair, jewelry on our fingers, wrists, ears, necks. We will wear lavish red hats with gaudy pins and plastic flowers and long fluffy scarves. We will laugh loud, hug long, and love deep. Most importantly, yesterday we were walking for a cure. A cure for ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis). We were walking for a fellow Scarlett Snickerdoodle – Lois.

Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) is a motor neuron disease, first described in 1869 by the noted French neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot. Although the cause of ALS is not completely understood, the last decade has brought a wealth of new scientific understanding about the disease that provides hope for the future.

Lou Gehrig first brought national and international attention to the disease in 1939 when he abruptly retired from baseball after being diagnosed with ALS. Most commonly, the disease strikes people between the ages of 40 and 70, and as many as 30,000 Americans have the disease at any given time. | http://www.alsa.org/

The first thing I noticed was everyone laughing and hugging and the air of festivity rang through the park. There was a live band playing very good music and coffee and hot chocolate and krispy kremes were enjoyed by children, adults, people in wheelchairs, volunteers. It was a party! It was a celebration! This was the Walk to Defeat ALS, held at Mirabeau Meadows, Saturday morning, September 13, 2008. Three miles along a portion of the Centennial Trail. I estimated 400 walkers. Maybe more.

There were 12 of us from Scarlett Snickerdoodles. There were several groups of people walking for their loved one – some walking for two or more special people in their lives. There was Team Jason, Team Watts, Team Chicks for Chuck, and many, many others. One team “40” looked like it had 40 participants. I mention Chicks for Chuck because I loved their t-shirt. They loved our hats. I told one that “our Lois” would be arriving soon and she leaned into me and said their Chuck had passed on but his wife was carrying on his fight by helping organize their Chicks for Chuck for the annual Walk to Cure ALS.

We were a wonderful beautiful crowd of people filled with hope and love and anticipation. The cure for ALS is becoming a reality!

Lipstick on a Pig

There it is, that ominous phrase. Kind of like "When Pigs Fly."

I do not for one nanosecond believe that Obama made that statement as a slam against Palin. It has been said before by several politicians. By McCain himself. How can that possibly relate to Palin? I am thinking the Democrats protest too much over nothing.

The glorification of Palin is a rather bleak outlook on our society in general. If you have good looks, are female, represent Mother Earth, pro-life at all costs, hunt and kill dinner for your family, and are nicknamed Barracuda, you have just qualified to run for Vice President of the United States with the 150% chance of being President within 100 days of inauguration. O boy!

How can this happen???? Does being a mayor of a small community and then governor of a sparsely populated state really give you the credentials to be, by all accounts, the President of the United States?

When we vote this fall, in just eight weeks, we really need to look at the ballot. If you are voting for McCain – think again. You are actually voting for the Vice President because his life expectancy has been greatly reduced and is much shorter than you realize.

So this morning, the news is all about the innocuous phrase, "lipstick on a pig," where Obama is referring to change in America. Not once inferring that it was directed towards Palin. But the Dems are spending all their time and energy trying to make it so. This is the stage of politics that I really truly hate. It is enough for me to not want to bother with the elections. We are in for a huge, huge change in America no matter which way we go. But I fear for our country and our soldiers in Iraq if we go McCain/Palin. I fear for our President's own life if we go Obama/Biden.

I fear for our women, too. We have just back-pedaled 30 years where exploiting women was the rule of the day. Once again we will have posters in garages, not of models in swimsuits, but politicians in high heels and - - - - - lipstick. All the news and all the blogs are covering Palin and underscoring good looks, beauty, etc. as the proof positive that men still see us as sex objects, better if we are barefoot and pregnant. We have grossly erased the impact of Roe v. Wade and will eventually lose the right to our own bodies. Again.

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Little Toes

I have been going through boxes of old clothes, toys, books, and dishes, all neatly packed over years and years of living in one house since my mid-30s sons were toddlers. O, the treasures I have found! Every box I open is like a looking glass to the past, when the two boys were small and almost identical even though they are 17 months apart. I am able to go through their childhood, layer by layer, grade by grade – I'm going backwards, you see – from 12th grade where my son bought and paid for with his own money 36 graduation pictures, wallet sized, still sitting in the box they came in. That is somehow sad. I remember his face falling when I told him he was responsible for the pictures. What I hadn't figured on was the circus salesman attitude of the photographer – guilting my poor shy son into buying 36 pictures for "all those girls just clamoring to ogle you in the privacy of their own bedrooms."

Then on to a box full of headless G-I Joes. Now there's a story! I just don't exactly know what it is. I remember the boys playing with their G-I Joes, mixed with a huge bag of rubber Army soldiers, a third smaller than Joe, and a mismatch conglomeration of Star Wars characters and one Weeble. Here they sat, most without their heads, laying spent on the floor of the box, their masters having gone off to bigger things like getting married, buying a house, paying bills.

I lifted up another box and found every stuffed animal my two hunkie men would not part with. Not for the bully next door. Not for money. Not for a new razoo Big Wheel. Here lay the loved, cherished, treasured fuzzy creatures that kept the two safe from boogeymen at night. They'd been everywhere. They'd been in the bathwater, in the tree house, dragged behind their Big Wheels, tucked in with the neighbor girl's doll carriage, tied to the back of the patient and long-suffering family dog. They had no fur. Some missing eyes. Some with big safety pins holding buttons where eyes used to be.

One more box was in the kindergarten layer of memories. Those wonderful days when the boys were still my babies, still fat, still eat-em-up chunkie. Here were finger-painting drawings of Mr. Sunshine, the [same] family dog, Stick-Mommy, and Stick-Brother in front of a little house with eyes for windows and a smiley face for a door. I used to have this and 30 or 40 others taped to my fridge – rotating as the boys moved up in grades.

And finally – the little red hand print of my oldest, done in felt, backed by lace paper, the shape traced from his fat little hand. And underneath it all a Plaster-of-Paris plaque of my youngest son's fat squatty foot, delicious little toes formed in the plaster and the instep painted in glittery gold. I sat back and instantly could see the 20 little five-year-olds running around barefoot in the kindergarten class as the ever patient little kindergarten teacher (not much taller than her charges) was orchestrating the procedures for memorializing all their precious little feet. Sweet memories!!! The days go by way too fast when it comes to our children. I can't hold it clenched to my chest hard enough – they continually travel by, memory by memory.

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Attack of the Killer Kidney

I've been KO'd by a little kidney. Well, not so little – probably huge. Just what you wanted to read about over lunch: my bulging, growing, cyst-filling kidney(s).

I have Polycystic Kidney Disease, which is the most common inherited disease in the world (beating out diabetes!) and the least known about.

So Friday I woke up feeling like one of those commercials for Nyquil – tired, achy all over, sneezing, fever, backache, whopping headache, and nausea. I know you empathize with me.

I went to work anyway and then had to turn right back around and head for urgent care. Three hours waiting, I kid you not, and I headed to the pharmacy for antibiotics, pain killers, packs of Jell-O, and home and straight to bed. I mean, my significant other had wind burns as I passed him in his comfy easy chair, NOT working. (I'm the breadwinner in this family.) Seriously, I was hoping the doc would say, "You have a really bad and very contagious cold – go home, go to bed, stay off your feet." But, nooooooo.

The last time I had a kidney infection, May 22, 2002 (you don't forget these things), I had a CAT scan. The assistant fussed around with me to get me just right and then started this thing that can only be described as a metal cylinder that looks like the back end of a jet – and it will confirm this vision once the engine starts and I mean – you think you are going to take off into space. It's a huge rumbling spinning sound like a whole bunch of loose ball bearings are charging around and around inside that tube.

I was laying there thinking "be an appendix attack. be an appendix attack. be an appendix attack." But when the assistant came out, her eyes were huge, huge pools in saucers; "Wow, you have really HUGE kidneys." They are NOT supposed to tell the patient that. The radiologist himself is supposed to tell you that. Not the 19-year-old, gum chewing, zit-faced KID.

Now here I am again, waiting for the diagnosis of (cross your fingers), a COLD.

Nope. I had a kidney infection.

See, I hate the word kidney infection because it means that my kidneys are getting attacked again and they just don't need any more pressure from the outside world. They are deteriorating just fine all by themselves. This just adds salt to the wound – oh, but I can't have salt. Just in time for the three-day Labor Day weekend. . . . . . . . . . woohoo.

Now, I'd rather give birth than have a kidney infection. (I've heard the same about kidney stones, too.)

The thing is, you see, I pride myself on my happy attitude. I'm up! I'm positive! I'm cheerful! I'm always going forward! And here I am flat on my back with not even enough energy to flick the power button on the computer, let alone SIT there and try to think of something to write and my fingers and my brain are NOT communicating with each other at all. I'd just as easily hit the delete key as the save key and not know the difference. Maybe I'll have an already-made cup of Jell-O.

It's not that I like to dwell on my disease. We all have some cross to bear. I just don't like to go on and on about it. I like to think that my attitude, my positive thinking, my happy thoughts will slow the decline. Most people with PKD end up on dialysis or have a transplant. I should be very fortunate (and lucky) to just go along as I am now with the occasional kidney infection and sometimes the [very painful] explosion of small blood-filled cysts bursting inside my kidney. I tell myself that as long as I am keeping a good look on things, keeping a positive attitude, then these nasty little interruptions too shall pass into oblivion and I can go along like everyone else.

Still, when it knocks you out, you lie there in bed thinking, gee, could it happen to me? Will I have to go on dialysis? Will I have to have a transplant?

Well, I'm back at work – still climbing up the wall of feeling good. And back to my positive attitude. I will not be ruled by my body today.

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