Salvageable

Fist in the Back

2009-02-26T11:31:00.002-06:00

I was home from a long day of work and medical appointments before I understood what was wrong with me. It wasn’t just that Nicholas of Starbucks left the cream out of my coffee, insisting even after I asked that he had indeed put it in. (It was a drive-thru and the color I could see through the slot in the top of the cup looked suspiciously dark. Black, in fact.)

“Are you sure there’s cream in here?” I asked one more time. Oh, yes, of course. Oh well.

No, I finally started feeling the fist in my back last night. I had seen my psychiatrist earlier, a boring man who prescribes my anti-depressant. But even the boring man almost pushed me out of his office after a few minutes of conversation. My time was up.

“How have you been?” he asked after I sat down.

“I’m still walking,” I responded. I explained why just putting one step in front of the other was a small accomplishment for me. Several things had happened since I’d last seen him in the fall. Still, after I told him about the worst weeks of my life, and after he’d nodded a few times, it was time for me to leave. Fist in the back.

On to the nursing home. At my aunt’s careplan conference an hour later, a nurse I’d never met and who has never met my aunt, also gave me a little push. Yes, they really had left my aunt in the same clothes four days in a row. True, we had talked about this previously. Really? Really, we haven’t been brushing her teeth? Wow, hard to believe.

But now, now we have others waiting. Waiting for their turn around the table. Where plans are made and not carried out. Where words mean nothing and caring is cheap. Fist in the back. Time to move on.

Reminders Unnecessary

2009-01-18T23:31:00.005-06:00

I've been indoors for a couple of days. I have a cold. I'm not happy about it, but I am grateful that I didn't have to board an airplane with it, or take an exam with it, or give birth with it, or address the nation with it.

I'm not superstitious, generally, but I'm wary of complaining too much. It's as though I expect a booming voice to reprimand me. You think that's bad? I'll show you something worse!

Even so, I'm going to toss aside my reluctance and just say it: The year 2008 was not a good year. It wasn't completely awful, but some awful things happened. I'm glad to have survived it, and I'm glad it's over.

I know it could have been worse. No reminders are necessary.

Battery

2009-01-16T07:59:00.009-06:00

English is my only language. When I want to get a laugh, I retrieve my high school Spanish from (deep inside) my memory vault. "Pasame la sal!" I love to shout (on any random occasion-- I just like the way it sounds). Pass the salt!

And so I don't know if other languages have as many words that have several meanings, though the same spelling and pronunciation.

"Battery" comes to mind. I put a new AA battery in my Aunt Netsy's table clock. She lives in a nursing home. She can't see the one on her wall. I then painstakingly reset the clock. Somehow the knobs on the back had come off. Finally the clock was in good shape again, and she was happy.

When I arrived the next day, the little clock lay on its face on the table. The battery cover was taken off and-- surprise!-- the battery was gone. My aunt hadn't noticed anything, and I wouldn't have expected her to. But, sadly, she wasn't surprised. "People can do what they want to do," she said simply.

If you are at all familiar with nursing homes, you already know the insidious attitude that can permeate even the best of them: Your room also belongs to me. "Me" is the staff. Since I take care of you, I can walk in whenever it suits me, rummage through your drawers if I choose, take your newspaper if I want to read it, and remove furniture without telling you. I can show up with a paintbrush and work in your room without notice. I can change your television programs to MTV. I can remove batteries from your remote control or your clock if I have another purpose for them.

You? You're a body in a bed.

It's not just a battery. It's also battery, as in assault.

Sad and Sorry

2009-01-14T18:36:00.000-06:00

Last week I spent a couple of days visiting my grandchild. He's nearly three. I loved being with him, as always, but he had a nasty virus that made him congested and feverish. He felt awful. His parents felt awful, too, since they got almost no sleep for several consecutive nights.

My grandson has learned to verbalize his feelings. Over and over he told whoever was in the room, "I'm sad." Sometimes it was "I'm so sad." After a while he expected a response and provided promptings when necessary. "Are you sad?" he would ask. Indeed I was, I always responded. Somehow it didn't seem enough, and so I would direct his attention to my face. I made sure my face looked really, really sad.

Other times he would inquire, "Are you sorry?" I couldn't emphasize enough how truly sorry I was. When I mentioned a telephone call from my husband, he asked "Is Granddaddy sorry? Is he sad?" I answered Yes, and my grandson nodded gravely.

At one point, when the fever was down and he seemed in the mood for it, I injected a little humor into our conversation. Face in hands, I pretended to sob over his plight. He squealed and clapped. More! More! He recognized Over The Topness when he saw it.

One of the benefits of being two is surely the power to direct the emotions of others. I admit it, I was a little envious.

Still Salvageable

2009-01-13T21:40:00.000-06:00

What can I say? I've missed my blog. I've missed writing.

I closed down Salvageable several months ago. I didn't do it impulsively. I had thought about it for several weeks, maybe longer, and decided that I had run low on fuel. I was barely creaking along and I couldn't stand to be one of those bloggers who posted only once every month or two.

The problem with NOT blogging, though, is that you still have all those thoughts. You still get excited and depressed and angry and silly. But if you don't have a blog, where do you put them? I've tried laying them on my family and friends-- mainly family!-- but it hasn't worked too well. Even a loving family member can take only so much of my ranting and ruminating.

So, it's back to you. Again. Still.

September

2008-09-01T08:32:00.004-05:00

Two times of year cause me to reflect: January and September. But let's forget about January. I've never met a resolution I liked-- or kept-- and I don't like being told what to do, though for pure entertainment, being told what to do can hardly be beat. As I read articles about losing weight, meeting one's soulmate or landing the perfect job, I feel smug and ornery: That would never work! How stupid! No way!

But September is another story. For many years it was the real beginning of a new year. New classes (though most schools begin in August now), new shoes, new teachers and friends. New Sunday School department. New, new, new. Having a September birthday gave the month even more importance. I'm sixteen now! Things will be different!

When our first baby was born on the first day of September, it seemed only appropriate. Finally things were going to be different. I really did have new goals, and I didn't need Parent magazine to tell me what they were. I probably couldn't have articulated them beyond the basic concepts of protect, take care of, and nurture, but I began understanding "new" in a way I never had before.

And so today begins another September. The baby lives hundreds of miles away. Most of my memories have little to do with her current reality, or even with my own. I remember watching her learn to walk, and now she's training for a marathon. I, on the other hand, am contemplating natural remedies for arthritic knees! What hasn't changed for me is the sweet wistfulness, the prayerful longing, and the passion for the journey I began on the day she came into my world.

Life. As I Know It.

2008-08-25T22:25:00.003-05:00

Summer for me has ended, as I went back to work at the residence hall at Baylor last Monday. My computer had been moved from one end of the long desk (it's more like a counter) to the other-- my first adjustment. After that, it was new students, new numbers, new t-shirts, new IDs, and-- of course!-- new freshmen parents! Dutifully they stood in line with their offspring and asked the questions their students were too shy to ask, such as "Should he have brought his own toilet paper?" It was an exhilarating and exhausting week.

Every day after work I drive across town to a nursing home where my Aunt Netsy is living. It has been an exhausting time for her, too. My own fatigue is the result of trying to navigate the maze of Good Care. What is it and how do I help get it for her? My cousin and I talk often and plot our next moves. I am sobered by the inescapable fact that I worked in long-term care for fifteen years, myself-- if it's this tough for me, how do other nursing home residents and family members manage, even survive, it?

Hospital, Sweet Hospital

2008-07-25T21:10:00.002-05:00

I'm not ready to give up on blogging. I say that as much to myself as to any reader who might stop by even after all these days of No News. I tried closing the blog several months ago, and I missed the idea of having it just as much as, or maybe more than, the actual writing. It's some place to go, you know?

I can't remember a more miserable summer, weather-wise, than this one. I know we've had hotter ones, but the combination of the heat and the humidity and the absence of rain have worn on me. My Aunt Netsy has had a rough summer beginning in May. She broke her hip, had surgery, entered a nursing home for rehab, got a sudden painful infection, entered the hospital and stayed 10 days, and is now back at the nursing home where more rehab awaits. You've just been given the condensed version. She and I both agree that We'd Rather Be at Starbucks.

Frankly her ordeal makes me question my previous desire to live a long life. The extra years seem to come with a price. But I don't think I'm up to examining that subject this morning, and so I'll share with you a few of my observations from spending many hours bedside in the hospital.

1. I do not speak English very well. Why else would the same desk clerk, sitting at the same nurses station, stare at me with fish-eyes as I was speaking, then respond-- every time!-- "Wait, wait, what are you talking about?"

2. It's the little things, that turn out to be big things, that separate adequate nurses from good ones. Sadly, the Adequates are greater in number than the Goods. But in the interest of honesty and optimism, I can't say that we encountered a single Bad One.

3. In Waco, Texas, you're supposed to drink iced tea with your meals. It doesn't matter if you've never liked tea, or if you carefully explain at every mealtime that you would prefer juice, coffee or even water, you will be given iced tea in Waco, Texas.

4. Hospital gowns, though always open in the back, come in an amazing variety of lengths. They are plain and rather stark; Aunt Netsy commented that a crocheted collar on them would greatly improve their appeal.

5. Hospital breakfasts are not bad at all. I've eaten more grits during the past 10 days than I've eaten in my entire life.

6. Medical personnel do not share information with each other. They would much rather have you repeat it over and over. I've been told there is a reason for this, so that they can hear the patient explain her own history, but I don't buy it. I was repeatedly asked, "Why is she taking Cumidon?" The questioner(s) never seemed impressed by my answer of, "I'm not sure, my cousin Kay was the one who took her to those appointments and she's currently in New Mexico helping her husband Dewey build their dream cabin and she's not where I can reach her easily because otherwise I'd call her up right now so that you wouldn't have to read my aunt's medical record or call the cardiologist...." I admit I didn't add that last phrase, but it wouldn't have mattered-- The Inquisitor was already interrupting me to ask the next (unnecessary?) question.

7. There are many different ways of moving a frail, hurting 89 year old from one place to another. Some ways are so much better than others.

8. Being blessed with "good hair" can get a female patient a lot of favorable attention, especially in Texas where good hair is very important. Aunt Netsy has has a frail little body but very, very good hair.

9. Students should not be sent to draw blood from an elderly person with bad veins. It happened twice and was a disaster both times. Let them learn on someone else.

10. Modern medicine has its faults but it is also an amazing process that I am truly grateful for. I was and am in awe of what can be learned and accomplished to help a very sick person.

First Day of Summer

2008-05-19T13:34:00.002-05:00

It's a beautiful morning and I'm.....not going to work. I'm a schoolgirl again-- free for the summer. It's a welcome benefit of this job.

What will I do?

I'd like to plant some flowers. Start cooking again. Organize and clean out my digital photo library. Blog more often. Send long overdue graduation and baby and wedding gifts. Read more books. Take more naps. Unpack.

I wish my daddy was still here, coming over for coffee every morning. I'm drinking a leisurely cup right now, thinking of him and knowing once again what time gives and time takes away.

Time to DTR

2008-04-09T17:27:00.001-05:00

I was in my usual spot behind the front desk at the college dormitory where I work, talking to several students. One was in a new romantic relationship. Things were going well, he said. In fact, it was probably time to talk. The girl he was hanging out with had hinted as much.

"Yeah," responded another student, "D. T. R." I looked at the three other people around me, all of whom were nodding matter-of-factly.

D. T. R. ? Uh, what's D. T. R. ?

Define the relationship, that's what!

Am I the only one who didn't know? Always eager to expand my horizons, I googled DTR as soon as I got home. After getting past Diesel Truck Resource and Data Terminal Ready (and who could care about either of those?), I actually found it.

After considering this delightful new (to me) acronym, I decided that I myself have attempted to DTR. I think it counts, even though I didn't know I was trying to DTR when I did it. And when was that?

I seem to recall it was right before my high school boyfriend dumped me. Coincidence?

Almost April

2008-03-30T22:27:00.002-05:00

I used to think of April as magical. Hard to say why. There were many nights when, as a child and teenager, I went to sleep with the window next to my head wide open. It never occurred to me that this might not be safe, and I suppose my parents didn't think of it either. I only knew that the breeze on my face felt like nothing else did.

And it's only March now. Not even Officially Spring. Yet today was one of those sunny, gusty days that reminded me of why I love spring so much. It was pouring rain all day yesterday. I was soaked by the time I made it home. But today was spectacular, just in time for an Easter egg hunt.

Anna, the exquisite little person whose mommy invited me to the hunt, toddled along clutching a small box of candy that had fallen out of a plastic egg. It fit perfectly inside her tiny little fist. Who needs a colorful egg when you can have a box of Nerds candy?

Soon it will be forty years since I walked on this same campus, even in this same area of the campus, holding hands with a boy I'd just met. He was too short for me, or I was too tall for him, but it didn't matter. Still doesn't.

Cute People Are on Facebook!

2008-01-23T09:01:00.002-06:00

I am a modern woman.

Well. What on earth is that supposed to mean? Nothing, really. I just thought it sounded like the way a post such as this one should begin. Only maybe I should have said, I am a modern young woman.

Let me provide some history. About 8 or 10 years ago, I finally dropped out of the Lead Pencil Club and began to use email (a little) and do internet research. Then I began to use email a lot. Then I discovered eBay and enjoyed a couple of years of buying and selling and meeting some Pretty Strange People. (Some might say they couldn't have been stranger than someone who sells sock monkeys on eBay.)

At one point I finally learned to use a digital camera and taught myself some basic Photoshop-type stuff. Still like that a lot.

Almost two years ago, after reading a couple of exquisitely horrible blogs, I wrote my first post.

And now I'm on Facebook. I know, it's a) really no big deal and b) kinda funny. Me? But it was by demand. People wanted to be my friends! Cute people!

My daughter says eventually it won't be quite as interesting as it is now. Another of my kids says it's more than a little weird.

And I say: Ann's "relationship status" is married. She is "looking for" friends.

Gigi

2008-01-21T09:04:00.002-06:00

Grandparents are often called funny names. That's because they receive these names from their grandchildren. My husband's mother, who was only in her mid-forties when our first child was born, made it clear that she preferred being called "Grandmother." None of this Granny or Grammy stuff. Just plain, dignified Grandmother. Alas, it was not to be. Unable to pronounce Grandmother, our toddler named her Maw Maw. And, of course, the other five grandchildren followed suit.

I have no hang-ups about being called Granny. It's what I want. I called my own grandmother Granny, and my children called my mother Granny. So far my only grandchild has not been able to say Granny. Until recently, he's been saying GaGa. Not exactly catchy, but I figured it was only a small twist of the tongue away from Granny.

Last week my daughter called me. Barely containing her laughter, she asked me to hold on a moment. I could hear her saying to my grandchild, "Say hi to Granny."

"Gigi," he chirped into the telephone. "Gigi."

He had been saying it all afternoon, obviously referring to me.

Gigi? Gigi??

I'm trying to be open-minded. Maybe my immediate assumptions and reactions to the name were wrong, I googled Gigi. Here are some of the words and phrases associated with Gigi:

burlesque; Italian restaurant; bar; movie (1958); fitness center; acoustic rock artist; pet boutique; merry-go-round horse; designer belts for babies; bikini wax; prom dresses; French poodle. Don't exactly remind you of me, do they?

I don't know whether I'll have to get used to it or not. He was still saying Gigi today, but Granny could be just around the corner (hobbling along with her cane, of course).

Bop Til I Drop

2007-12-09T08:35:00.001-06:00

It's fun to not say no. I like not setting limits.

Of course, I could only be talking about grandmothering. Generations of grandparents have discovered this before I did. My daughter says it takes several days of detox for my grandson after he returns from a visit with me. I try to express sympathy but, secretly, I'm proud.

Yesterday morning my grandson and I danced. Sometimes we've joined hands and danced, but this time he wanted me to pick him up and carry him as I twirled and dipped. We put our cheeks together for a while, then he'd pull away and clap his hands together. His mother danced near us, and her dramatic moves made him shriek with delight.

I've never been an especially good dancer. Nor have I been known for my agility, strength or gracefulness. But my grandchild thinks I can-- and should-- be able to do anything he asks. If that means dancing, then by golly this granny is gonna move.

Part of the reason I'm able to follow my heart and do whatever he wants is that his parents set the necessary limits. I'm glad they do. I value them. But I don't want to be them. I want to be the granny who bops 'til she drops.

After the Fall

2007-09-17T12:32:00.003-05:00

My dad fell Saturday. We received the call about 11:15 that morning, picked him up at his independent living facility and took him to an emergency room, where we spent the next four or five hours. My dad, who walks with a "walker," could not get up or stand unassisted after he fell, and we feared the worst-- which in his case would have been a broken hip. But x-rays were negative and, though a painful gash on the back of his head required five staples, we were relieved. He is with us until we can make some confusing but necessary decisions.

Falls are awful. My husband has been telling me for years that I go down harder than anyone he's seen. "You've never learned to fall," he concludes, then tries to tell me what to do when I feel myself falling. I know, I answer, I've read the instructions.

Honestly, I never thought much about falling until I began to work with the elderly. After several of my special people died as the result of them, I began to fear falls. Nursing homes are hazardous places. I've read studies that say 50 to 75 percent of nursing home residents over 65 years old fall at least once every year; "only" one in three people who live at home fall once a year. As a staff member, I fell several times each year, so I suspect the percentages are actually higher.

I've tried to think of another word or phrase to describe what happens to a person when he falls, other than "shaken up." He didn't break any bones, we say with relief, he's just a little shaken up. But people are shaken deeper than their fragile bones, down into the psyche.

I can't believe this happened to me.

I'm afraid to go anywhere again.

My dad is using his walker now and testing out his world after the fall. Yesterday he slept a lot. As he lay on the couch, eyes closed and breathing steadily, my son gazed at him and murmured, "Doesn't he look sweet?"

Yes, too sweet, too good to fall.

Happy Birthday to Us!

2007-09-08T08:58:00.001-05:00

It's your birthday, Mother, and if you were here I'd say Happy Birthday.....to us! That's what we used to say, you and I, once I was finally willing to acknowledge that it was your birthday, too! I used to be a self-centered little thing, didn't I? I'm glad you never held it against me.

I thought it would get easier to live without you and I guess, after nearly ten years, it is. But I still can't get through a day without thinking of you and, when I do, the tears surprise me all over again. No, I'm not really sad and certainly not depressed, but there's something about thinking about your mother. . . . I know you'd understand, because you were that way about your mother, too.

Sometimes it helps to list the things I'm thankful for. I'm glad you got to know Scott and Diane, because in knowing and loving them, you learned even more about me, and about Steve-- your own children. You thought Steve and I were both pretty lucky in our mates and marriages. I even jokingly accused you of liking Scott better than me, and though you denied it, I noticed you didn't protest too hard!

You spent time with all four of your grandchildren, making up in quality what you were denied in quantity. I feel a little guilty about that, because I enjoy such easy access to my own grandson. Speaking about yourself and my dad, you'd say, You just have no idea how much we love these kids! I used to think to myself, Of course. I know you love them a lot. But, as usual, you were right; I didn't know. Not until I held my own grandchild would I understand.

I wish you could have been at your grandchildren's weddings. I wish you could have met their spouses. You'd have been so pleased, and so reassured. You wanted nothing less than complete love and devotion for them and, from those wedding days forward, that's what they've had.

I wish you could see your three great-grandsons! I picture you holding them, laughing at their antics, looking at their photographs. I know you could find resemblances that have never occurred to the rest of us!

And I wish you were here for Daddy. He needs you still, as he always did. No one understands him as you did, though it's not from lack of effort on our parts! Whether it's making the bed, folding underwear, or loading the dishwasher, he unintentionally reminds me that your ways were best. You felt both relieved and a little guilty to leave first. You didn't want to say it, but I knew-- strong as you were-- you didn't want to live without him. For your sake, I'm grateful that you didn't have to.

I'm crying as I write and, though you didn't want me to mourn forever, you would have understood. You knew about grief, just as you understood love and family. . . . . and birthdays! They're all part of life, our lives, and denying any of them is impossible.

So, happy birthday. . . . to us!

Sandwiched

2007-07-24T13:42:00.001-05:00

If something just won't leave my mind alone, I write it down hoping that the muddle will explode into eloquence. That's just a dream. Usually I'm satisfied if I have a little more clarity at the end of a session at the keyboard than I did at the beginning.

Sometimes I begin writing a blog post that I'm not sure I'll publish. The reason for that, most of the time, is that I know I may get fed up and delete it! Other times I realize that, whoa, I don't want people to read this.

I don't know when I first heard the phrase "Sandwich Generation." It was catchy, whenever it was, and I thought it might apply to me. I still had children at home, though two were teenagers, and my parents were getting older and needier. I introduced the term to friends in similar situations, and together we pondered the meaning of belonging to this newly identified group.

That was long ago, but my membership card has not yet expired. No, I'm not taking care of my children now (though I'm still available for giving advice!), but I have a grandchild I want to be with as often as possible. And my father's life is one I lean into more each day.

My reluctance to write about this (see second paragraph) stems from fear that people will think I'm complaining or, worse, glorifying my importance. The truth is, I don't do that much. My grandchild is in another city. My dad lives in Waco but not in my home.

Still, I feel "sandwiched" between my desperate need to be in my grandchild's life and my helplessness to change my father's. The two longings don't compete with each other, but trying to maintain my footing as I leap from one to the other is tricky. And I think I just changed metaphors, because sandwiches don't jump.

Yesterday evening I sat with my father as he described another hopelessly bad meal, throbbing hands that make it tortuous to tie shoes and button shirts, and his sickening dread of a nursing home. I know he usually feels better the next day. But the tears I held back as he talked fell freely the rest of the night. In my frustration I slammed three doors.

As I write this, my dad has gone out to breakfast with my son. I didn't sleep last night but I'm better today, too. Why? Because I'll soon hold a baby. . . .

For Example

2007-05-15T11:16:00.006-05:00

My mother lived for eighty years, but it wasn't long enough. I know that babies lose their mothers, and women in their twenties die every day. But gratitude for her longevity hasn't lessened my longing for more time with her. I wanted her to see my children get married. She didn't get to. I wanted her to meet her great-grandchildren, and she never saw them. She was fun and loved life as much as ever and if she were still here she'd still be grateful for the gift of it.

One of my friends said, when her mom died, "I've lost my cheerleader." No one else cared in quite the same way. It's true. I am blessed by the affection of many people, some related and many not, but no one is interested in me like my mother was. My mom knew how mundane my life could be, and she still wanted to hear about it! If I had guests for dinner, she wanted to know the menu and what I wore. For example:

Did everyone eat a lot, or was someone picky? What time did they go home? Did I think they'd be inviting us over very soon? If not, why wouldn't they?

Didn't I think I was catching colds too often? Maybe I wasn't sleeping enough. No, vitamins probably wouldn't help. Was I worrying too much? Well, I shouldn't, because after all I was doing the best I could and that's all anyone could be expected to do.

Who would I say my best friend is now? And why is that? Maybe it's because she's the one who still writes you. People should write more letters. Or at least call, though long distance is expensive. Anyway, you always need friends.

Didn't I dread moving so often? At least I had a wonderful husband who helped me. Most women don't have it so good. But, really, when did I think he might get out of the Air Force so that I could stop moving? Only if he wants to, of course, because it's important that he's happy, too.

Did I realize how well-behaved my children were? Better than most people's, and better looking, too! At least we could say that to each other without bragging, because we both know it's the truth. Don't you hate it when people brag on their kids to make themselves look better? We don't want to do that.

Did I need so many dogs? How could I keep a house clean with all those animals running around? Yes, they're cute, but still.....

I miss the conversation that continued regardless of how many miles were between us. I miss sharing things that only she would find worth mentioning. I have so many questions for her now, almost ten years' worth, that I didn't think to ask back then.

And the first one is, Did you have any idea how much I'd miss you?

Last Drive

2007-03-28T18:04:00.003-05:00

It must be hard to give up driving. In my experience, men often find it more difficult than women do. More than one male nursing home resident with whom I worked has thought he was in his car or truck when, in fact, he was lying in his bed. I'm talking about dementia, of course, but I've never seen a woman's confusion take that same route.

Prior to Christmas my dad, age ninety, still drove every day. He met friends for coffee on most mornings and then drove to my house for coffee with me, all of this happening before 9:00 A.M.. And he still came over for dinner at least once or twice a week.

Shortly after the holidays he experienced a series of seemingly minor medical problems. Test after test revealed nothing major, but-- long story short-- he now uses a walker and is frailer than he was last year. His car has sat for weeks in the parking lot. He admitted driving to the dry cleaner's several weeks ago but otherwise hasn't seemed motivated to drive. This is not a problem for me. It's a relief. I've been able to take him for appointment and errands.

Recently he mentioned selling his car "because I probably won't use it anymore." Without sounding too eager, I tried to be encouraging as I casually mentioned the good reasons to give up driving. When a family member mentioned buying his car, my dad seemed interested.

When I called him early Sunday afternoon and he didn't answer, I wasn't too concerned. I left a message. When he didn't return my call within 30 minutes, I called again. No answer. I began to consider making a trip to his apartment to check on him.

Finally the phone rang. He was trying to sound jovial.

"Well, you probably won't believe where I've been."

I thought I knew but played dumb. "No, I really don't know."

"I drove to the cemetery." This would be the cemetery where my mother is buried.

"Oh? And you felt up to doing that?" I tried not to sound irritable. But this is a man who usually notifies me when he's going to be in the bathroom for longer than five minutes.

"Well, I did all right. I can drive fine. It's just getting in and out of the car that's hard."

We continued our conversation for a few more seconds. Sensing my concern, he finally said, "The bluebonnets are blooming there."

"They are? Are they pretty?"

"They're beautiful." He said it softly. A long pause, then, "I guess I needed to take a last drive."

I don't know for sure whether that was his last drive. I'm praying that it was and that he received some comfort, as I did, that his last drive was to visit my mom.

Mistakes Were Made, Maybe By Me

2007-03-16T11:00:00.001-05:00

I've been trying to avoid becoming obsessed with the sentence "Mistakes were made." It's such an easy target, the passive voice, and all day columnists and bloggers have been hammering Attorney General Alberto Gonzales for using it. Bad, bad, bad Alberto!

We've become accustomed to hearing public figures, politicians especially, "apologize" without admitting anything. Bill Clinton probably wished later that he'd stuck with mistakes were made rather than uttering his famous denial of not having "sex with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky." See what happens when you slip into the active voice?

As indignant as I am when someone owes me an apology and just won't give it, I have to admit that at times I have avoided reeeeally taking responsibility myself. In the interest of honesty and personal growth, I would like to make amends. I intend to demonstrate that I can indeed take responsibility, even when employing the passive voice. Here goes:

Mistakes were made on my Trigonometry final exam in 1968. Lots of them, and probably by me, since it was my grade that dropped from a B to a D.

Mistakes were made when a kitten was smuggled into our no-pets-allowed university housing. Yeah, okay, I made the mistake when I smuggled the kitten. Also, my husband was the apartment manager. He worked for the university. Awkward.

Mistakes were made when I tried to speak German to Germans in Germany 1987-1990. I must be talking about me, because the Germans seemed to speak pretty good German.

Mistakes were made by not getting a flu shot this season. My mistake, my flu.

See what I mean? It's not so hard. Give it a try, Alberto.

Along for the Ride

2007-03-09T20:17:00.005-06:00

You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you. --Carl Sandburg, "I Love You"

Though Thanksgiving can get swallowed up into a pre-Christmas frenzy of shopping and partying, three other days during the calendar year are, for me, mini-Thanksgivings. My children's birthdays are occasions for remembering my first glimpses of their newborn faces and how each of them greeted the world in a style all their own. I relive the exhaustion and the ecstasy of that birth day, and I intentionally spend time breathing my thanks for the amazing life that began at that particular moment.

Life with our son has never been dull. He's funny and smart and his mind works in mysterious ways. One of our friends called him "a tender tough-guy." And he is. But more than that, he is an affectionate uncle whose antics make his nephew squeal with delight; a compassionate soul who held his "dog-brother" close as life ended; an attentive and patient grandson; and an irresistible son who lights up his mom's world by just passing through the room. From the moment I saw his furious little face in the delivery room and heard his not-so-little roar of outrage (he was probably hungry-- hunger, to this day, puts him in a really bad mood), I was captured. As the actress Helen Hayes put it, "That was the end of my heart. I never got it back."

I don't think many of us parents want our hearts back. We want to be along for the ride. Sometimes we forget who's supposed to be driving or holding the reins, a common parental amnesia, but the journey is nevertheless as exquisitely exhilarating as it is unsettling.

And on this day, my Thanksgiving in March, I am so grateful-- and humbled-- to be along for the ride. Happy birthday, favorite son!

A Sourpuss Amnesiac with an Attitude

2007-02-02T23:10:00.001-06:00

I was in a hospital waiting room this afternoon. As usual, I finished the three-month old Time magazine quickly, so there was nothing left to do except stare at other people-- which is so rude-- or eavesdrop-- which is rude but subtle.

A woman about my age wearing a full-length white furry coat plopped down in a chair next to a man who turned out to be her husband. She was talking on her cell phone in a loud voice. "Do you want to meet me at Tom's . . . . well, why not? . . . you're always saying you want more time with me." She argued for a few more minutes before hanging up. Then she turned her attention to her husband, who was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket-- kinda cool in my view.

"I think you have amnesia," she stated flatly.

"No, I don't."

"Uh huh, you do. I'm sure of it."

"No. I just can't remember everything you say." A minute of silence. Then she said:

"It just really frustrates me when you act like such a sourpuss."

"I am not a sourpuss," he answered.

"Yes, you are definitely a sourpuss, and you've been that way all day. I hate it."

"What do you mean? I got up this morning, I gathered wood, started a fire. . ." Silence again.

"You've had a real attitude. Something is wrong with you, and you have an attitude."

This time he waited a while before responding, then:

"Maybe I'm just tired."

(Ah. So that's it.)

Why would I be here if I didn't have to be?

2007-01-24T18:57:00.002-06:00

I spent the morning with my dad at the hospital. He had a radiology appointment. We were told to check in at Admitting at 10:30. From there he would have lab work and then proceed to Radiology. It didn't take very long to check in, though it involved more paperwork than he thought necessary.

"I don't know why they have to open up a new account every time I come," he said, not very quietly. On the other hand, he wondered why the Admitting person didn't spend a longer time reviewing the drivers' license he was required to show. "Did you really look at it?" he quizzed her. He then rattled off his drivers' license number for her just in case.

"That's fine," she said, "I just needed to verify that you're who you say you are."

"Why would I be here if I didn't have to be?" he countered.

The lab work went smoothly and soon we were already in the Radiology waiting room. It was only 10:40. Our appointment, we were told, was not until 11:30. They always allow plenty of time for the lab. Great, I thought.

By noon I had read all the available magazines. My dad had visited the men's room a couple of times. I asked the lady-behind-the-glass if she knew how much longer we would be waiting. Then I shared what she had said with my dad.

"She says they're running a little late, and it will be a few more minutes," I whispered into his ear.

"Oh really?" he answered, staring straight ahead. "I never would have guessed that."

I heard giggles all around me.

Finally at 12:15 his name was called. The technician asked him,"You've had this kind of test before, haven't you?"

"I'm 90 years old. I've had every kind of test before."

He came back 45 minutes later. "This place has some problems," he told me as he sat down to rest.

Oh? I was sort of hoping he wouldn't elaborate, but he continued. "They still weren't ready when I got back there, so they put me in a storage closet to wait."

I mumbled something about a construction project but didn't press him about being put in a closet. Turns out I didn't have to.

"Yes, it was just an old closet. Maybe six by six. There were boxes stacked all around me."

Really? Oh. Wow. Hmm. . . .What else was there to say?

Evidently he had thought of something. "I told them I wasn't coming back until they got themselves together. And I'm not."

Fine with me.

60 is the new 40

2007-01-19T15:52:00.002-06:00

When I turned on the TV yesterday morning, Today Show host Ann Curry was presiding over a segment called "60 is the new 40." First on was a 67 year old model, discovered at age 63. She's now working for Eileen Ford's modeling agency and living a most unexpected life. She said it was wonderful and looked very happy. I loved the color of her hair-- white-- but thought the style was pathetic. No way the Ford Agency would tolerate that hair on an under-40 model, but I guess they were relieved that she still had hair.

Next, Ann Curry interviewed Raquel Welch and best-selling author Gail "Passages" Sheehy. They both agreed that 60 is the new 40 and that the older model is bound to be very inspirational to aging women. Yes indeedy, I feel better already and know I'll sleep good tonight.

Raquel talked about, uh, Raquel. Sheehy trumpeted her new book Sex and the Seasoned Woman. My favorite moment of all came when one of them said-- are you ready for this-- "But getting older is about more than sex." I was overcome with shock and heard myself shouting at the television, "It is? Oh noooooooo!" In other words, I was profoundly disappointed. My mood did not pick up when Curry closed by inviting the viewers to stay tuned for a feature on depression. But I suppose I can rationalize that not only is getting older not just about sex, it's also not just about depression. Sigh.

I was ever-so-slightly impressed with a phrase spoken by Racquel. She seemed to be regreting her pattern of "living life on the surface" for so many years. Since she's presenting herself as an example of how good an older woman can look-- as opposed to be, for example-- I'm not sure she's much deeper than she's ever been. But perhaps she's trying, and that's all any of us can do.

The Zone

2007-01-06T18:28:00.002-06:00

I spent a couple of hours Thursday playing with two of my best buddies. Their mother, who had a lunch meeting to attend, is also a friend of mine. I never know exactly how the boys and I will spend our time together, because I am definitely not the one in charge. What I can be sure of is that we will have fun and that I will learn something new. Learning something new is a very fortunate thing-- otherwise I might turn into an old fogie.

That afternoon we spent almost all of our time in the boys' bedroom. They had removed the couch and chair cushions and carried them from the living room to their room, where the cushions began new life as a tall tower. That this tower was quite wobbly and was being climbed upon by two wiggly bodies made me a little nervous at first (I imagined myself telling their mother when she returned, "I'm sorry, but they both crashed through the window and I haven't seen them since!"). As time passed, however, I relaxed and entered The Zone.

The Zone is a place where thoughts of schedules and obligations do not exist. In fact, I think they're banned. While in The Zone, my voice switches octaves easily and my body participates in activities that I Do-Not-Attempt-At-Home. Words like poo-poo are funny in The Zone. New ideas and scenarios flow seamlessly, interrupted only occasionally by a call from the bathroom ("Miss Ann, come wipe my bottom!").

We usually play with Sock Monkey, whom I bring from my house. Interestingly enough, I am the one almost always chosen (ie., ordered) to hold Sock Monkey and be his voice. The boys prefer doing things to Sock Monkey. In other words, Sock Monkey is a perpetual victim, doomed to yelping and whining about the unfairness of his plight and begging the boys to make things better for him-- which they invariably refuse to do. Nearly every toy in the house is brought forth to inflict some sort of torment upon poor old Sock Monkey. Thursday he was mashed by couch cushions. Even Lucy the cat was summoned to the bedroom in the hope that she would introduce her claws to Sock Monkey. Instead, Lucy was unimpressed with her potential role in our drama and quickly escaped to a-- relatively-- safe spot under the bed.

Eventually my time in The Zone must always come to an end. Mommy or Daddy arrives home to a joyful reunion, and Miss Ann climbs into her red Bug and waves herself away.

Worth the Wait

2006-12-27T07:30:00.003-06:00

Today is my daughter's birthday. There's so much I could say but so little time to think about saying it. Her birthday is always that way, but surprisingly she has never blamed me for the poor planning! Years ago I wrote this piece during the Advent season, so I'll recycle it again.

The baby came two days after Christmas-- out to meet a gasping mother and a pale, shaken father. The baby’s face was unbelievably red and indescribably beautiful. She had been expected for several weeks. While her father had slept, her mother had walked. Down the hall, into the living room, around the Christmas tree, the mother plodded silently. The baby inside was silent but not still. Stretching, rolling, reaching, turning, she reminded her mother, I’m here, I’m here, I’ll come, you can wait. Her mother reminded herself, it will be worth it. Worth all this. Yes, worth it.

Was this really Christmas, the mother wondered as she looked out the window of an empty nursery. Lights blinked outside. Christmas for me will be late this year, the mother thought. But worth the wait, the baby, still spinning, told her.

Years later the mother learned what the baby was doing during their wait. A swimmer from the beginning, she was arching her back, ready to push off, waiting for a good start. A good start is worth the wait.

Christmas is a start, a good start. Worth the wait. Yes, worth it.

Stalled

2006-11-06T17:39:00.001-06:00

A few years back, walking out of the ladies' room of an American department store, a British friend of mine remarked, "The doors to your toilet stalls are not fitted properly! There's a rather large gap!" That's true, but I'll take too large a gap over too small. Here's why:

Years ago a stall door closed so tightly that I couldn't open it when I was ready to leave. I really couldn't and I began to panic. Fortunately, there was another woman nearby washing her hands. Unfortunately, she was from Thailand and neither spoke nor understood much English. I was one of the English teachers in the class she was attending in the building.

Her name was pronounced Noy-nook, though I'm sure it was spelled differently. "Noy-nook!" I cried. "I can't open this door!" I repeated this several times as she struggled to understand. Finally she summoned all her English skills and shouted back (though there was really no need to shout-- we were only a few feet apart), "Turn latch! Turn latch!"

"I've already tried that!" She came closer and began pull on the door. No luck.

"Turn latch! Turn latch!" We repeated this exchange several times.

I felt like crying. I looked down and saw a small space between the bottom of the door and the floor. I was skinny-- and younger-- back then and decided I had to go for it. I began to bend down toward the floor, as Noy-nook continued to shout "Turn latch! Turn latch!"

I didn't get very far. The stall space was so small that I bumped my forehead hard on the door, on my way down. As I yelled "Ow!," the door flew open and I exploded from the stall.

Noy-nook smiled with relief. "Ah, you turn latch!"

Making Faces in the Psych Unit

2006-10-25T18:09:00.004-05:00

Daughter #2 formed the face you see in the photo on the right. I don't remember where we were living, just that we were overseas and it was about 20 years ago. She brought it home and I was amazed. Never had I seen such a face. I wish I could remember how she described it at the time. Much later she recalled that the piece was not originally designed to be a face but rather a little bowl of some sort. Somehow she changed plans and pinched it into a human (?) image.

Clay is a remarkable thing and not only when used by artists. It's very basic-- just you and the clay. No paintbrushes, needles or knives are required. Not even a potter's wheel. Your fingers can roll it, squeeze it and punch it, and most of the time it feels good. Most of the time.

I spent a couple of weeks in a psychiatric unit when we lived in Germany. As a patient, I should add. At this point in my life, over 18 years later, the experience is filed under Been There, Done That, Glad I Did- Though It Was Awful. What my experience has to do with clay is this: A smug occupational therapist, in his daily session with us, assigned the task of making someone out of clay. The Someone had to be the person we hated most in the world and, consequently, blamed for our misery.

I remember being surprised that I was the only one who formed my own self-- sitting down, legs extended, head bowed, hands in pockets. My comrades-in-distress came up with: husband, boss, ex-husband of fiance, former friend, and parents. Then there was Victor.

Victor was on staff, a psychiatric technician or "psych tech." Which means the Air Force may have given him one hour of extra training on how to be with crazy people. Victor's mouth, when it wasn't making an inappropriate remark, was shaped into a permanent smirk. I loathed him. . . him and his blonde buzz-cut, wispy little mustache, macho posturing, and icy blue eyes. He was probably no older than 21.

As I was being urged by the therapist to explain my model, I heard snickers. To my relief, my new friends weren't laughing at me. They were looking at Victor and his creation. Victor had made a lumpy-looking dog. The dog was squatting. The dog was, yes, you guessed it, defecating. Victor was still rolling little turds. (I know that's a nasty word to use, but there's just no other way.)

I don't remember the therapist's reaction, if he even noticed. I just remember feeling a new bond with Victor. Yes, Victor, that's exactly how I feel about this stupid exercise and about life in general right now.

Victor secured his improved status with me by helping us order pizza, then organizing us into a band of leering idiots before the delivery person arrived. When the unsuspecting pizza man stepped hesitantly into our game room, our crossed-eyes, stuck-out tongues and wild grimaces awaited him. He hurriedly took our money and left.

As I said before, isn't clay amazing? And aren't faces even more so?

Holded

2006-10-09T10:48:00.000-05:00

All my talk about hand-holding must have made me go mushy. You were already mushy, I hear some of you saying. Okay, fine, agreed, but sometimes I am more myself than other times. This morning is one of those times.

Do you ever feel incapable of self-care? Or, maybe, just tired of doing it? Years ago, when Daughter # 2 felt sad or needy or, more likely, was in some sort of trouble, she would throw her head back and wail, “I need to be holded!” She was about 3 or 4 years old and life could be difficult for a middle child. Her older sister bossed her and her little brother bit her. She prayed about it (dear-dear-God-help-her-not-to-be-so-mean-to-me-and-help-him-not-to-bite-me-so-much).

And when relief didn't come quickly enough, she'd go for being "holded."

I dreamed last night that we had a huge party at our house. Being a typical dream, it was a party I hadn't known about, hadn't planned and hadn't wanted. People kept streaming in, oblivious to my confusion. My family wandered in and out of the rooms, vaguely happy it seemed, yet not really helping me give this party. I so wanted to be somewhere else but I couldn't leave.

I think I needed to be holded.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand!

2006-10-08T17:29:00.001-05:00

One of the main reasons I enjoy reading the New York Times is the quirky articles. By that, I mean that the Times-- and the Washington Post to some extent-- frequently explores issues that, at first thought, don't seem significant. But they are, and the Times reminds us of that.

Who would've thought, for example, that hand-holding merits serious attention? True, it is a relationship issue and a behavioral issue and a cultural issue. But it seems so minor. When I think of those kinds of issues, I expect to read about AIDS, or cohabiting, or sex education. Last week, however, the Times reported that the practice of holding hands is being studied.

I'm glad. Hand-holding is something I have experience with! On my first date many years ago, the boy I was with asked if he could hold my hand. How quaint, how sweet, you might think. But at the time I thought, How yucky. It's hard to explain my negative reaction, except to say that his asking took all the romance out of it. A few years later my husband-to-be didn't ask to hold my hand on our first date-- he just reached for it. Much better.

And I always loved holding my children's hands when they were young. I remember walking with my little boy in our small town in England, holding his gloved hand as we ran into a tea shop to waste time and stay warm while his sisters were having their weekly piano lesson. This won't last forever, I thought. Shortly after that, this same little boy was having a fight with his uncle as they toured Framlingham Castle. My brother-in-law instinctively reached for my son's hand. Castle walls can be dangerous places for children. My son was having none of it, and they proceeded to have their own battle inside the castle. (Having already been there several times, I was obliviously browsing in a nearby bookstore, though I may have heard some screams.)

I believe hand-holding is welcomed more often than resisted. Almost nine years ago my family lined up to be seated for my mother's memorial service. I saw my brother take my father's hand just as they began to walk up the aisle of the church. It was my dad's hand and not mine, but I felt reassured. We're together, we're all here for her.

And now studies tell us that holding hands makes us feel more secure and protected. Our brains really like it! I think I already knew that. But it's good to be reminded.

Group Hug

2006-09-20T22:13:00.002-05:00

When it comes to something a group of people can do together that isn't illegal or immoral, nothing much can beat the Group Hug. I am absolutely, terrifyingly serious. I say "terrifying" because sometimes I realize I'm so needy it scares me almost to death.

Monday was such a beautiful day. Absurdly inspired, I once again decided heaven must be like a big front porch where you can sit a while, then run out and play like a child in the front yard, or maybe with a child in the front yard. The sun shining through the leaves felt so fine on my face that I almost threw my big unstylish sunglasses into the street.

I was driving around with my friend and we had some spare time between our scheduled activities. So we made a stop at her daughter's house and that's where my front porch reverie began. I felt awkward at first because I didn't know anyone but my friend. Different people kept coming out and going back into the house, and children who belonged to who-knows-who were running everywhere. Cats, some wearing collars and others obviously wild, were lolling all around, stretching and yawning. The ice cream man jingled by. I remembered I had my camera in the car, so I retrieved it and began taking the children's pictures. They shrieked "Cheese! Cheese!" before I even had it out of the case. The adults I didn't know began to laugh and so did I. I promised to give them copies of the pictures.

Our next stop was at the home of my friend's former son-in-law. He has custody of her grandchildren, a court-ordered fact that she finds it hard to forgive him for. She'd been telling me how he won't let her see the children and, in fact, she hadn't visited them since January. We drove by his house slowly. She saw his truck but didn't see the former son-in-law himself sitting in the front yard smoking. But I did.

"Why don't you try asking him if you can make an appointment to see the kids?"

"No! He might throw something at me."

I'd never seen this man act violently, so I persisted, "Ask very politely." I promised to circle the block but not leave her for long.

She got out of the car and began to walk up his driveway as I pulled away. I drove around the block slowly, waving at strangers who were outside enjoying the lovely weather.

When I pulled up again at the house, the ex-son-in-law waved me into his driveway, and my friend was already hugging a grandchild. Another grandchild was on his way out.

I had missed them, too. Even after the first hugs, the ten year old stood between my friend and me, patting us both. Finally, he put his arms around us and said, "Let's stand real close to each other."

I could restrain myself no longer. "Let's have a group hug!" I cried. The six year old ran over to join us.

We were standing in a driveway. But as I've prayed my thanks today, I've pictured us holding onto each other on a heavenly front porch. Absolutely, terrifyingly beautiful.

The Other Birthday Girl

2006-09-08T22:19:00.004-05:00

Growing up, I enjoyed telling people that I was born on my mother's birthday. I didn’t know many others who could say that, and I liked feeling special. But really, that was almost my only childhood acknowledgement of her birthday. The fact that she was part of my birthday story made her birthday slightly interesting. But only slightly!

My paternal grandmother used to tell the story of how I once said to my mother: “Guess what? We have a surprise for you!” To which my mom replied, “What is it?” My enthusiastic answer: “We didn’t get you anything for your birthday!”

That story has not improved with age.

As I grew older, my mother and I cherished the occasional birthday we celebrated together. Usually we lived far apart. We would talk on the telephone, though, and tell each other about our day—what we had done, who we saw, how we celebrated.

And my mother always said, before we ended our conversation, “You were the best birthday present I ever got!” I can still hear her voice.

On her last birthday—when she turned eighty—she was sitting up in her bed in a hospital room as she laughed, talked and opened cards and presents. As a joke, we had signed the name of her quiet, humorless physician on one of the cards. She loved it. Smiling nurses wandered in and out of the room, sometimes leaning against the wall for a few minutes to talk. My mother said, “Everyone wants to be where we are, because we're having so much fun.”

I think all of us knew it was her final birthday, herself included, but I couldn't bear to think of it then. After being her favorite birthday present for so many years, how could I have imagined a birthday without her?

Now she’s gone and, of course, I miss her and what she said to me every September 8th. For the first several birthdays after she died, I didn’t want to celebrate. The other birthday girl wasn’t there.

But time and memory can re-ignite the imagination, often out of necessity. Now I can picture a special birthday card just for me. It’s from my mother. You can guess what it says.

The First September 1st

2006-09-01T22:30:00.004-05:00

You’ve heard the expression, “She didn’t know what hit her.” That describes the beginning of my first labor pains—I didn’t know what was hitting me! By the time my husband and I had figured it out, we were glad the hospital wasn’t farther away. Several hours later the most beautiful baby in the world—up until that time at least—made her first cries. Her father and I fell in love with her at that moment, and we’ve never fallen out.

She looked so much like her dad that he and I both began to laugh when we saw her. The same chin exactly, with the dimple.

I was 23 years old, a baby myself, and my husband was only a few weeks older. We had been through childbirth classes, read books and listened to stories, but we knew nothing. I repeat, nothing. The Beautiful Baby began tutoring us, her sometimes reluctant pupils, on that September 1st.

We soon discovered that she enjoyed straightening us out. Her way was the only way! She took her role as Firstborn very seriously and would grow into it even more as her younger siblings arrived. She became counselor, teacher, disciplinarian, leader and—dare I admit it?—her mom and dad’s guinea pig.

Now she lives across the country, working at a job I can’t understand and doing things I can only marvel at. To me she’s still like her dad—beautiful blue eyes and determined jaw. The same unmistakable laugh. When I see her, which will probably never be often enough, I stare at her with the same longing, awe and aching love that I felt on that first September first.

I’ve heard that in some ways a child’s birthday means more to the parent than to the child herself. Who knows? Now that she's no longer a teenager, she might not welcome this date every year. But of course, I do. Happy, happy birthday, sweet baby.

Excuse me, where is the garboli ?

2006-08-30T16:54:00.003-05:00

About 22 years ago our family went to live in England. We were thrilled. We landed at Heathrow on a Friday and by Sunday we were exploring local castles, churches and ruins.

My husband, a one-time history major, was fascinated by castles. Since he was an avid reader and had already traveled extensively, he was quite knowledgeable. He carefully explained the history as well as the reasoning behind the way castles had been built. He introduced us to terms such as moat, keep and....garboli. But I’m ahead of myself.

Our children were 10, 8 and 5 years of age. If my memory is correct, Orford Castle in Suffolk was their first castle. They loved it, especially since they could move freely and not have to listen to a tedious tour guide. One of the first questions they asked us (their tedious parents) about living in a castle concerned a subject children are often interested in. How, they wondered, had people gone to the bathroom? Their father pointed out a seat-like structure and solemnly intoned, “This was a toilet. It was called a garboli.” He pronounced it GAR-BO-LEE.

Ahhhh. A garboli. After much giggling, the kids began to enlighten other newcomers to castle life, mainly family members and close friends who came to visit us in our new home. Even I took pride in pointing out the garboli, though I confess that I did wonder why English toilets had such an Italian-sounding name.

A couple of years after our initial visit to Orford, I was perusing a guidebook on castles. It contained many diagrams and terms. Suddenly something caught my eye: “Medieval toilets were called garderobes.”

What? I immediately called it to my husband’s attention, exclaiming, “Listen to this! This book says toilets were called garderobes. What about garbolis?”

My husband-and-father-of-my-children merely shrugged. “Oh well,” he answered, “garderobe, garboli, what’s the difference?”

What’s the difference? WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE? So what if we’d been authoritatively telling people about “garbolis” for two years!

Though we amended our toilet vocabulary, the term garboli was not lost to history. No, even today some of our relatives-- and their friends with whom they shared this story-- use it. “Where is Howard? Oh, he went to the garboli.” or “Do you need to use the garboli before we leave?”

The gospel of garboli has spread throughout the land! Or maybe it's more accurately called...bathroom humor.

And to think I’d wondered if the word was Italian! It wasn’t. It was ours.

I Miss My Imaginary Friend

2006-08-21T09:00:00.002-05:00

One morning last week as I was driving home from Ft. Worth, one of the Bad Songs I’d named in an earlier post began to play on the radio. Oh no, I thought. But I decided to listen to “I’m Already There.” After all, I could have made a mistake—maybe it really wasn’t that bad. But I soon realized, it is. I reached to the dial to turn off the whining of Lonestar’s lead singer. Then I heard it.

“I’m all-ready there...I’m the whisper in the wind...I’m your imaginary friend.”

What was that? Say again?

Imaginary friend. What a loaded two-word phrase. An article I read recently says that after an exhaustive study of Imaginary Friends, researchers say that by the age of seven, 65 % of children have had such a pal.

Oddie P was my friend. I wish I remembered more about her. I do recall that she was a she. And that she was older than I, maybe even middle-aged. I loved the sound of her name, though I don’t know where it came from. My parents said that I used to call for her when I was in trouble, especially when a spanking was about to begin. (“Oddie! Oddie! Oddie Peeeeeeee!”)

My brother’s person was Pea Gah. I’ve emailed my brother for the correct spelling. Maybe he’ll fill me in on a few more details about Pea Gah, such as gender (I think he was a male), occupation and activities. As far as I know, Pea Gah and Oddie P were not related.

Only one of my three children had an imaginary friend that I know of. And really, had I predicted which child would have one, I wouldn’t have picked my son. My daughters seemed so much more, well, sensitive, and—dare I say it?—imaginative. (At this point, I humbly acknowledge how little we mothers sometimes know about our children.)

But John Gock lived somewhere in Bowie, Maryland when we did. He went to my son’s pre-school and was close to my son’s age (four), but just a little older. He and my son played together a lot and liked the same things. Sometimes John Gock got into trouble with the pre-school teacher. No matter. John Gock had The Aura. He just seemed on top of things. When John Gock’s name was mentioned, the rest of us listened.

One Sunday morning we were driving to church and my son casually mentioned, “We just drove past John Gock’s house.” My husband hit the brakes. The older sisters exclaimed, “Where? Which one? Let’s go back.” And my son said, “No, you missed it.” We went on to church.

Last week I asked my son if I could write about his Imaginary Friend John Gock. “You can,” he replied, “but he was real.”

If I can't have her boyfriend, I'll take her hair

2006-08-17T08:50:00.002-05:00

The record cover was too much for me to resist. For one thing, it was a record cover. Remember the days of buying a 45 (RPM record) for less than a dollar? No, of course you don’t. (But if you do, please let me know and we’ll hang out. Maybe do the Mashed Potato or the Peppermint Twist. Or something.)

So I had to buy the record cover. Because of the second thing: the cover girl’s hair. More specifically, her flip.

Ah, the flip hairstyle. It seemed so impossible to achieve, at least for some of us. I think I started working on it when I was in the eighth or ninth grade. It’s hard to tell from my old photographs. Why? Because I didn’t achieve it.

It was all or nothing back then. This was before blow dryers and quick re-do’s. What you came up with, you were stuck with. I remember having to go to church one Sunday morning with a flip that had flopped. I was humiliated. I knew how bad it was when even my mother looked sympathetic. If only she'd allowed me to skip church!

Back to the record cover...the guy on it is cute, though he looks somewhat aloof. Doesn’t he recognize a good flip when he's next to one?

Husband for Hire

2006-08-12T08:38:00.001-05:00

I saw this sign in north Waco yesterday and had to photograph it. It was irresistible for a Collector of Useless Information and Off-the-Wall Pictures.

I wonder who put up the sign. The husband himself? Or the wife of the husband? I know, I could call the number. But it’s more fun to just...speculate.Here are a few things I would hire my husband out to do. After all, he does have some skills which could be marketable, especially if times get tough.

Hanging drapes. In 1972 he was a drapery-hanging trainee for Sears.
Cooking out on a grill. Talented to the max. Has a cute apron.
Calling Bingo. In the early 90s he was a nursing home favorite.Entertaining babies. His in-your-face style wins ‘em over every time.
Directing traffic. Loves to hold a Stop Sign. And tell folks what to do.
Pouring concrete. A natural. Never met a sidewalk he didn’t love.

On the flip side, he lacks certain talents which I will now (briefly) list to show my lack of bias. I would not hire him to:

Do yard work. He has allergies and prefers concrete over grass.
Cut my hair. I’ve been there, done that and won’t do it again.
Sing at a wedding. Unless they were all wrong for each other.
Pick out clothing. Most of all for himself.

Let’s stop there. The first list is longer. As they say in the field of economics, the surpluses outweigh the deficits. Hey, that reminds me: He’s pretty good at economics these days, even if he did sleep through class in the 70s!

Deep in My Heart

2006-08-06T21:53:00.004-05:00

It might be nice to be able to say that I don’t love things. But I do. What I treasure most is what could be called, tactlessly, junk.

Sappy, sentimental, maudlin, mawkish (I’m not sure of those last two words as I don’t think I’ve ever used them), that’s me. I can’t bear to throw away stuff and still regret tossing out old letters years ago.

So I’m glad I didn’t get rid of my Texas flag. Not that I don’t love my State, but it’s not Texas that attaches me to it. It’s my mother. She made it when I was twelve.

I’d volunteered to bring a flag to my geography class the next day. I was probably grandstanding, or maybe trying to ingratiate myself to a teacher who didn’t like me. And he really didn’t. After announcing that I would come up with a flag, I forgot about it.

Until 9:00 that night. As I was complaining about Mr. Reeves—the horrid teacher—one last time before bed, I suddenly remembered. Oh nooooooo!

Mother to the rescue. She asked how big it needed to be. Doesn’t matter, anything, whatever, I blubbered. She pulled out several scraps of fabric and, in ten minutes, I had my flag. Mr. Reeves was impressed.

Many years later, when she saw the flag framed on my wall, my mother said, “Well, I’d have made it look better if I’d known you were going to frame it.”

No, no, it was perfect. Still is.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2006-08-04T22:03:00.000-05:00

During their first week back at school, do children still write about what they did last summer? That was a routine assignment way-back-when. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I probably tried to use correct punctuation.

My summers were uncomplicated, and beautiful. I loved playing. Our neighborhood-- in what was then north Dallas-- was as far as I wanted to go. We built forts, had wagon races, and organized backyard softball games. We chased lightning bugs and put them in old mayonnaise jars with holes punched in the lids.

One summer we bought small turtles at the nearby 5 & 10 . Those turtles, I’m sad to say, had it rough during their short life spans. They went “swimming,” with the help of a garden hose, in our wading pools. We made little churches out of shoeboxes so that they could have weddings. Gertrude and Pierre were the first-- and last-- couple. The same large ugly turtle who presided over their marriage ceremony held their funerals a few days later. I guess life with us was just too much for them.

Even my older brother, usually far too sophisticated for such silliness, joined in the memorial service for Gertrude. He tried to say a prayer, but the rest of us fell down on the grass giggling after he’d spoken a couple of holy words.

The two sisters who lived across the street, far luckier than I, were allowed to buy hamsters at the 5 & 10. We put them on the sidewalk and encouraged them to run. One of them darted straight under the foot of my best friend Ellen, and promptly gave up the ghost. The sisters were first heartbroken, then furious. “Murderer!” they cried. I don’t remember participating in that funeral.

Life is different now, certainly for me, but also for today’s children. Even with the Texas heat, our houses weren’t air-conditioned. We stayed outside, occasionally running in to the kitchen for a swig of cold water from a Tupperware bottle in the refrigerator.

We played until the sun began to set. Coming in barefoot and “filthy-dirty,” as we proudly called it, we were so tired we could hardly bathe.

Afterward, I collapsed into my bed next to an open window, dreaming of lightning bugs, tomorrow’s races, and trips to the 5 & 10 for more turtles.

Baylor Girl, I Mean Woman, and the Raincoat Rule

2006-07-27T21:27:00.005-05:00

Soon after arriving on the Baylor campus as a freshman many years ago, I noticed several things. First, a lot of the boys were very short. But that's not what I want to write about today. I kept seeing the phrase "Baylor Woman" everywhere. No more Girl. I certainly didn't feel like a woman and I knew for sure my parents didn't think of me as one.

Baylor Women, I soon learned, didn’t smoke, drink, or stay out past 11:00 on weeknights, 12:30 A.M. on Friday nights, or midnight on Saturdays. I really had no interest in smoking or drinking, and there wasn’t all that much to do on campus or in Waco past curfew. So no problem there.

What seems remarkably strange now, as it did even back then, was the Raincoat Rule. Baylor Women wore skirts on campus, not slacks and certainly not shorts. The dilemma of issues such as P.E. and leaving campus was addressed by the Raincoat Rule: wear a raincoat over your shorts or slacks. Uh, a raincoat??? I suppose any sort of overcoat would have sufficed, but it’s far too hot in Waco much of the school year for a heavy coat. Hence, the raincoat.

I didn’t own a raincoat. Raincoats have never been cool, and they weren’t then. But somehow I ended up with a wrinkly/crinkly, vinyl thing. It couldn’t be see-through, of course, and mine wasn’t. It was greenish gray. It could be folded into a small satchel when it wasn’t in use. Sadly, though, it was often in use.

A raincoat could easily cover shorts, but what purpose did it serve for slacks?

You can probably answer that question, and I can now. The Raincoat Rule existed to manage and protect. In a word: CONTROL. Even though we were women and not girls, we needed to be controlled. Baylor men/boys, on the other hand, did not. Curfew-less, they roamed the campus and Waco late into the night. They smoked in their dormitory rooms. In fact, they smoked all over campus, wherever they wanted to. And they had maids to clean their rooms! Yes, maids.

When questioned about the obvious disparity, a Dean reassured the skeptics: “We provide the men with the services and the women with the protection.”

I am not making this up. Ah, the good old days…

10 Things I Used to Not Think About

2006-07-25T21:14:00.004-05:00

Blogs
I was pleased when I finally realized, or was told, that “blog” was a shortened form of “web log,” which meant an online journal. A diary! I understood diary. Like many girls of my generation, I often received a small leather, or fake leather, book for Christmas. On the cover was written “My Diary.” It had a small band attached to the back cover that curved to the front. At the front end of the band, a gold clasp could be fastened to the front cover. Best of all, the clasp could be locked with a tiny gold key! I might even lose it! The dramatic possibilities were thrilling. Of course, since the band was only about an inch high, and the diary about 6 inches, it was very easy to read most of the writing on each page. But no matter, the key meant that it was WRONG for anyone else to read it. My entries usually consisted of January 1 and 2. January 1 likely read, “Today was a boring day. We took down the Christmas tree.” (January 2, I forget.)

Cemeteries
They were always vaguely interesting to me, but now I often think about one in particular. It’s a beautiful place just outside Waco. My mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-great grandmother, and—yes—great-great-great grandmother are buried there. Several grandfathers, and some favorite aunts, uncles, and cousins are as well. I think of how my maternal grandmother watched as her 23 year old daughter was buried. And of my great-grandmother who stood at the graves of two of her daughters, both under the age of 25. When did I start thinking of it? Probably after seeing my mom’s gravestone and wondering how it could be possible. Somehow, standing in that place—sad, bewildered, and silent—has been profoundly moving to me. And then there have been the fun times! My cousins and aunt and I visit “our people” (as a 4 year old cousin called them) and tell stories as we clean, replace flowers, and wander around. My aunt said they used to have picnics there on designated clean-up days. She said we should bring sandwiches sometime. Maybe we will.

Root Beer Floats
Honestly, I have to give credit to my friends in the nursing home where I once worked. They requested them during the summer months and promised immediate refreshment to anyone who partook. I dipped and poured many floats. Slurping floats was such a joyful activity that I took the idea with me to the next place I worked, a home for retired Catholic nuns across the country from the first place. The Sisters already knew about root beer floats and happily agreed to drink what I fixed. So now the root beer float—not Coke, not Dr. Pepper—is a favorite drink, especially when it’s 100 degrees outside!

Sunscreen
We used to put it on our noses and shoulders, sometimes, and the “suntan lotion” container didn’t have an SPF number. Most of the time we didn’t use it at all; we knew how much better we looked with a tan. About 20 or 30 years after I stopped obsessing about my tan, or lack thereof, one of my closest friends died of melanoma. And now I think about sunscreen.

Insomnia
In 1986 I stopped sleeping well. In fact, I stopped sleeping. For several years, no medication helped. I sleep much better these days, but never again as I did pre-1986.

Starbucks
I know there are places that make better coffee, but Starbucks is a favorite chain. I look for Starbucks when I’m on the road. I rejoice when I see the green letters. I sigh after taking a first sip. I don’t complain about the price. I’m not really embarrassed about the coffee stains on my shirts, though I pretend I am.

Sock Monkeys
In the mid-90s I saw an old sock monkey in an antique shop. I wanted to buy it but the person with me laughed and asked, “Why?” Since I didn’t know, I didn’t buy. I began seeing more and more sock monkeys in the next few years and realized my childhood had lacked something. I had teddy bears and dolls, but no sock monkey. For a while I collected old ones, then began wistfully looking at “make your own sock monkey” instructions on the internet. Since I don’t sew, it seemed impossible. Now when someone talks about miracles, I nod and say I believe in them. Because I learned to make sock monkeys and even sold them on Ebay. Sock monkeys are comfort creatures, like comfort foods. Mashed potatoes, pound cake, banana pudding, sock monkeys=Comfortable Miracles.

Ancestors
Since very few subjects are as fascinating to me as Myself, it was probably inevitable that I would eventually discover my forbearers. My mother’s ancestors and my father’s ancestors chose to come to Texas after stops in Virginia, Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana, among other states. Farther back, some lived in Ireland, Scotland and England. There is a lot I do not know. But now I understand why I was born in Dallas, and that the reason is more complex than the fact that my father happened to work in Grand Prairie at the time.

Life Groups
When I lived in England, I was a member of a British Baptist church. It had “house groups” that met in various members’ homes once a week. We prayed, sang, and studied scripture. We talked about our problems and laughed at our messy lives. Now, twenty years later, I attend a church that encourages “life groups.” Usually there aren’t more than 8 of us. I love the quietness, the candlelight, and the silliness. I love the diversity. I often think about my friends during the week.

Border Collies
We’re dog people but had never had a border collie. We inherited her. She needs Prozac, I’m quite sure, and I think about that a lot. Especially when I look at the fifth chewed-up rug.