Bad News First? The Hospital, Health Care Experience Things that Make You Say “hmmmmm.”

Phrases like:

This is one of the “older beds, stretchers, etc.”

No answer when staff is asked about milk being sour.

Or in other words, seems like a lot on this unit have diarrhea.

(BTW - This is not my current health care setting.)

That one’s got a nice “set” heard one 3 a.m. under pretense of being cleaned up.

Or the classics:  “I didn’t get the message” and “Don’t be rude to me.”

I need to write about this stuff. 

There are somebody really good, kind people in health care 

and I don’t know or have the exact Mister  Rogers’ quotation, but find the friends first,

 by all means in yuour neighborhood. 

It’s been a tough week, absolutely. I’m receiving much support and better care now.

The Bent Wobbly Mailbox

A Story for my Dear Sister 

There was a bent wobbly mailbox on a little street tucked away in the village. Despite it being well-worn and much used, the mailbox served its owner well. The owner, a woman who lived on this tucked away street, was wise and resourceful. She received many things in the bent wobbly mailbox and made wondrously beautiful gifts with what she received.

She made gifts for birds and other creatures with bits and pieces of cloth, string, and yarn. The pieces of cloth often were fashioned into lovely, warm quilts for folks in the village who felt cold in the winter months. Yarn was made into hats, scarves, and mittens for the same people who otherwise would suffer. She left these warm creations on shrubs throughout the village for anyone to take.

People who were ill would find the quilts on their doorstep left there secretly by the woman. The people of the village never knew where all these gifts came from. The birds and other creatures knew her secret but told no one even if they were pets in the village households. Their masters did not know the source of all the beautifully crafted gifts. There would be tweeting and twittering, barking and meowing in hilarity by the birds and other creatures because of the village folks lack of knowing.

The woman had a purpose knowing she was doing good for her village. The bent wobbly mailbox gave her a never ending supply of all she ever needed. It had a purpose, too. You might say this is magic and I think you might be right. Who knew there could be so much love in the woman’s bent wobbly mailbox?

Doc's Skeleton Story

 - A Story Told to Me by Doc Conklin -

Doc worked as a night watchman for a time at Ithaca Hospital while attending Cornell University to become a veterinarian. On his rounds of the hospital one night he discovered some cigarette butts and empty beer bottles in an uppermost attic. He immediately had concerns about someone smoking cigarettes there due to the hazard of fire.

He made a plan to find out who was doing this and how to stop the trespassers from continuing this behavior. The next night he made a hiding place for himself behind where he had found the evidence of trespassing. He quietly waited.

Two men showed up and made themselves comfortable to enjoy drinking some beer and smoking. As Doc observed this, he took hold of a skeleton stored near where he hid. It was in storage for use in classes at the hospital. Gleefully, Doc shook the skeleton hard and with enthusiasm. In his words, Doc described the two men jumping up and ran “hellbent for election.” 

According to Doc, they never came back and the problem was solved; a true example of Doc’s sense of humor and resourcefulness.

A Poem

The exotic bird
Bright with a show of
lime, fuchsia, azure
shivers at the feeder.
He's escaped from
the cage
and his old one
who clucks and pats
and coos, in his warm
home of
seed plenty, water
fresh, place clean.

He's chilled at the feeder
with the blowing and sharpness
of a wind that will
not send him back to
his old one,
nor comfort her.

Chickadees and
sparrows bow to him,
pecking, bobbing;
not knowing, ever,
what is cage;
not knowing, ever,
what is lost.

Mourning George W.

Seeking His Soul

Who would care enough to reach out and give his hand to a gambling addict in a recovery meeting?  This would include going to a Correctional Facility for a meeting with incarcerated gambling addicts  Through many years of attending a recovery meeting for those of us who enable gambling addicts, I saw George W. do this many times.  The welcome and warmth he gave to newcomers was heartening to watch.

He encouraged my companion, William P., inn many ways through the years  After William passed, I found a photo of George's grandson in William's wallet.  This had meaning for both of them and William honored the grandson by carrying the photo in in his wallet.

William was a gambling addict.   George encouraged William but practiced tough love with him, too.. If a gambler was having struggles in  recovery, George would recognize it and suggest more meetings, more telephoning, more Step work.  George knew the signs and willingly shared his story to fellow addicts.  He was a dynamic speaker.

I would like to express condolences to Charlotte, Greg, and Mark for your loss.  There is an empty space where George once was.  George died on July 16, 2017 which was two days before what would have been William P."s birthday.  God bless.

Said in a recovery meeting:

I sought my soul, but could not see.

I sought my God, but He eluded me.

I sought my brothers,and found all three.

I Once Dreamt of Fame ----- Now I Dream of Peace

As a teenager I had many dreams and fantasies that fame would somehow give me the ultimate achievement.  I was very enamored of The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and watched it many late nights observing and weighing how the interviewees talked and responded to Johnny Carson's schtick and his patter and comedic strategies.  I had a deep crush on Johnny and many of my fantasies revolved around being interviewed on his show for my great talents as a writer or performer.  Maybe I would be a rock star who was supremely talented in a band like Three Dog Night or Blood, Sweat, and Tears.  This was how I built up my self esteem at a time when my ego was fragile and not well bolstered at all.

I guess I ought to feel embarrassment for those long ago fantasies and yearnings that would somehow make me valuable and worthy in the eyes of the world.  I didn't feel valuable and worthy in the life I was living.  I'll spare you the long litany of why I didn't feel valued.  These feelings followed me into adulthood but eventually I've somehow managed to find some peace and acceptance of myself.

My faith has been helpful to me in realizing that I have worth.  In the words of one mentor, "God don't make no junk."  At the lowest depths of darkness, I've been able to hear God's lesson that I am a child of the Creator who exists in a light-filled,world  Even though I was deep in some very dark places with the shadows surrounding me,  I was able to hold on and know God was with me.

The peace and acceptance have gradually followed from those dark days of pain and panic.  I have experienced much spiritual growth.

In many facets of my existence, I do experience peace.  With gratitude, I welcome that peace that God has given me.  I may never have been on The Tonight Show yucking it up with Johnny Carson, but I have something now that I value more than anything like that would have been.  It is something much more valuable to me.  I have peace and the gratitude that accompanies it.

And my dear Johnny Carson,   hope you have found peace in the afterlife.  You gave our culture much laughter and entertainment in your time, and me, as well.  And I have the lesson I have learned from those long ago days of my teen years when what I thought I wanted was not to be and what I didn't know I wanted, came to be.

Overthinking About Overthinking

It's almost 6 am on a Wednesday morning.  It is calm and cool as I look out the window in front of my laptop.  What shall I write?  I'm not able to think of a title for this post.  My mind has not kicked in to thinking mode this early in the day.  That is a possibility.  Sometimes thinking mode is over-rated.  I read posts in different venues about how over-thinking can be problematic.  It's quite often associated with addictive behaviors.

I love to get in the place when my mind is involved wholly in a task such as crafting or reading.  I don't find watching television conducive to this mindful place that I like to be in.  The analogy of television as junk food isn't lost on me.  There are times when I like junk television and it is an escape.  I admit I watch Let's Make A Deal with Wayne Brady or Big Brother as a sort of calorie laden bag of potato chips for my brain.  I'm not able to do this as a constant.  It saps my inner reserves of self discipline if I watch a lot of television.

To achieve the mindful place where I'd like to be, I quietly meditate and pray, I crochet on the prayer shawl that I'm making for Ernie who is seriously ill, or I listen to music.  It is such a gift to me when I am able to focus my attention and do these activities.

Reading has been a difficult area for me to re-establish.  Due to depressive episodes, the focus and attention to it has been lost to me at times.  A lot of my childhood and youth were spent in this beloved pastime.  The rewards to me of achieving the focus I need to read a book in its entirety are limitless.

I listen to the vehicles speeding by on the US highway I live on and I hear the birds with their tweets and song.  It is an interlude of sound that sends me on my way this morning.  I have hope that I may achieve some mindful time such as this as my day progresses.  It may include some reading, crocheting, or music.  That is a bonus in any day of my life.

Easter Day 2014

Three days after Easter of this year and I'm listening to some inspirational music by Amy Grant.  It is her album, The Collection.  I look out my window and the evergreens and branches of the birches are gently blowing in a chilly spring breeze.  El Shaddai  El Shaddi  God of Light, You set Your children free.

How many can truly say that we are free?  I think of friends and family in genuine struggles of daily life.  The national and international news is discouraging and doesn't give a positive picture of where humanity is going forward.  What is it forward that we go to in our journeys?  Is it simply movement from a point in one place to a linear point down the time lines of our lives?

Count your blessings.  Accentuate the positive.  Are you able to do this under the crushing weight that life hands some of us?  A facebook meme states there always something to be grateful for.

Our local nursing home is closing in May in our small village.  It was endowed by a local philanthropist and now has been running in the red for years and the NY State Department of Health has signed off on closing it.  The few residents left must now find a bed available somewhere.  It is so terribly sad that these residents and their families cannot even find beds close to our area because there aren't openings.

Jesus....He'll never let you go...

Each one of these individuals is a human living spark with feelings.  They have family, friends, nursing home staff, who care about them.  

I spent a quiet day in my own home on Easter.  That day I listened to Amy Grant, Sandy Patti, and Aretha Franklin's early gospel music.  I had food for my body, as well as music and literature to feed my soul.  I could read my Bible without interruption and ponder the words of the Scripture writers, His Word.  This is my freedom.  Theses are my blessings.

Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet....When I feel afraid, feel I've lost my way...You'll be there untill the end.  

Freedom?  Find it in your spiritual life and hope that humanity will be moving forward to a better day. Let us hope that the vulnerable, the innocent, the hurting, those with disease, the young and old, all who suffer can find freedom.  This is what discernment I find this Easter.

Christmas Busted---Ice Here and Back Again

Many places in the Northeast experienced the weekend before Christmas 2013, an extreme ice storm with power outages and states of emergency to prevent unnecessary travel.  The unnecessary travel allows emergency vehicles, utility trucks, and law enforcement to get where they need to go without having to deal with as many stranded motorists or accidents.

Many of my concerns centered on power being out at my home where my heat source requires electricity and worries without heat the water pipes will freeze and break.  Just being cold seems secondary to this worry of broken water pipes.  I was very fortunate because the power outage lasted  5 hours on a Saturday afternoon.  It was about 6:30 pm when the power was restored by a utility truck on the highway in front of my house with the eerie sound of the linemen on loudspeaker talking to each other.  It was disorienting, but in a grateful way, I welcomed this strangeness of hearing them in the darkness of the early evening talking to each other as they did the necessary work to bring electricity back to our neighborhood.

This was my backyard:

It's March as I finish writing this blog segment.  It's been a long, difficult winter.  There's somewhat of a touch of spring in the air, but it seems snow and cold are wearing on.  Hanging on to hope that spring will be here soon is a difficult task for me at this time.

The Bitter Sweetness: I Get Dressed and I Show Up

I'm feeling bitter sweetness and loneliness tonight.  To assist myself in working through these feelings, I've been listening to soft music that evokes some of the emotions I've been feeling.  And I scribble and doodle in my Windows 7 Paint program.  It helps me to feel peace.  I turned here to my oft-neglected blog to soothe myself and find hope rather than loss.

This is a self portrait that I did once in Paint.

I am progressing to upper middle age, where I guess 50-ish is the new 60-ish, in my case.  My face looks old to me and I wear cosmetics very seldom.  I don't color my hair, nor do I get the latest hair style and trips to the beautician are few and far between.  I seem to have a "kick me" tattoo on my forehead that invites weird and off color comments at times when I go out in the community.  I have to tell myself that maybe someone that comments like this will know what it's like some day.

Today I talked to two people who have suffered great trauma in their lives and I feel defeated and sad for them.  I wonder why it has to happen and why the healing must always be so painful and filled with anger.  There is no sweetness in this for those who have been traumatized by violence and horrendous acts.

A scan of the brains of those who have PTSD,  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, show there has been an actual change in the make-up or what I will call the "wiring" of the brain as compared to that who has not experienced such trauma.

This is a picture I did this evening in the Paint program that I titled Archangel:

And here is another that I titled Scribble:

I don't think I've ready for the MOMA, but it helped me to paint and doodle my way out of the sadness I'm feeling tonight.  And maybe there are angels or archangels looking out for the vulnerable, the prey of the predators, and the lost and alone who feel no sweetness and may only taste the bitter.

I will just keep getting dressed and showing up.  It is sweet to be able to do that and hopefully the bitterness I feel will take care of itself.

Have You Heard the One About the Psalmodikon---or An Amateur Luthier Makes One

My friend, whom I shall refer to as The Luthier, tinkers with and creates many types of musical instruments. These instruments can include those with bellows and reeds, such as accordions and pump organs, or stringed instruments made of many types of woods or cobbled and cannibalized from various other stringed instruments.  It is quite a creative process this requires speedy searches by myself on the internet for types of wood The Lutheir seeks or specific mandolin or viola strings, whatever the heat of the moment is requiring.

As far as the psalmodikon goes, I found it fascinating and even the pronunciation of the word required some education on our part by The Hermit.  The Hermit is another character in this process who also provides internet searches and information on tech processes and of course, pronunciation coaching.  It was determined that the best pronunciation for this instrument of Scandinavian origin is "som-OH-dick-on."

It is a long wooden instrument with one string that generally has a low, almost guttural sound.  It is known in states such as Minnesota where many Scandinavians settled in the 19th and 20th centuries.  The one string is often played with a bow used on other stringed instruments and they will be played in quartets of the instrument to provide a variety of notes.

The Luthier did build his psalmodikon and it looked fine.  I would have liked to play it and it held a fascination for me.  Maybe because the Scandinavian culture has always been an interest;  probably ever since seeing the Viking ship model my oldest brother made when I was a young child and sneaking into  his bedroom too look at it, but never daring to touch the model.  And I must admit those Midwestern Scandinavian lumberjacks are some fine looking specimens, too.

The Luthier's creation did not remain whole very long.  It was disassembled and the spruce that it had been composed from became another musical project.  This is someone who has the specifications for the Stradivarius stringed instruments posted on the refrigerator in large font to refer to when needed.

Here is a link to some music by a psalmodikon quartet:

http://www.psalmodikon.com/music/index.htm

The psalomdikon quartet music is well-suited to sacred music, as you will see, if you viewed and listened to the music on this web page Nordic-American Psalmodkonforbundet.  This page has lots of information on the topic, if my article has piqued your interest.

The Luthier, of course, is on another project, and the Hermit and I just shrug our shoulders and know the Lutheir will be requesting new internet searches and information soon for the next and the next and the next...

Laundromat Musings

Washing and drying clothes at a laundromat involves a whole set of skills, that many may not be aware they might need.  Take a couple loads of laundry to the local laundromat when you've never been to one and it will become apparent that it isn't as simple a process as it might look.  Not to be gender biased, but if you're a man standing around waiting for someone to feel sorry for you and tell you what to do, you might get some sympathizers, you might not.  A lot of the women that are going to the laundromat may have children or grandchildren with them , as well as having hauled on heavy loads of wet and dirty clothes and don't see this endeavor as an opportunity to assist the clueless male on how to do his laundry.

Hopefully, the male in question, had a parent who taught him the basics of laundry when he was growing up and he will not be as clueless as originally conjectured to be.  Note, I was once asked to sniff and smell a man's newly laundered pair of pants to see if it still had a burning smell left from the fire he had his house recently.  I asked myself internally, "Is he serious?" but I played along and did as he asked.  I couldn't smell any burning smell, and there might have been a slight odor of kerosene, but I'm not the best person to ask, because my sense of smell is practically nonexistent, except after a superb night's rest, which can happen very rarely.

This was going on as two young children were rolling the laundry carts back and forth and coasting on them as entertainment, while their harried grandmother finished drying some bedding she had washed.  One sincerely enjoys silence after an experience like this, believe me.

Using the same laundromat all the time, one gets acclimated to which washing machines and dryers are the better ones.  One learns the washer that sounds like it will launch into orbit when it is spin drying or the dryer that will leave one with a mass of wet clothes after an hour of drying on the highest setting.  On the opposite side of things, are the washers that don't spin dry at all and leave sodden clothes and the dryers that may melt  the polyester shirt back to its roots as a  product of crude oil.

Who would have known the adventures that await at the local laundromat?

Following Craft Blogs----I Love It!

I follow several craft blogs by email and on facebook.  Probably two years ago I discovered Craft Gossip which publishes every day and is a digest of many types of crafts and features projects made by artists, artisans, craftsmen, you name it, it has been featured.  At least you can name it within tasteful limits.  This blog is a good  way to learn your way around the craft blog world and what you like and what suits your particular likes and dislikes.

I don't claim to be an expert in this area.  I don't attempt to write a craft blog because I don't think I have the self-discipline that I observe is required to do so.  I enjoy seeing the posts and pinning on Pinterest or bookmarking in my browser the crafts and ideas that I think that I might make some day.

And that is the crux of the matter:  some day.  I think this is the true enjoyment I receive in seeing all the wonderful things that can be made with fiber and fabric and all the other materials that are used by these wonderful bloggers and artisans.  I live vicariously through these people's talents.  I know I do.

In a better world, I would have the self-discipline to make all these beautiful objects that I see daily in the posts of such blogs as,  Schwin&Schwin, Crafting a Green World, Positively Splendid, Sew Can She, Crazy Little Projects, Graphics Fairy, Awesomesauce & Asshattery, Cornflower Blue, Chemknits, and meijo's JOY, to name just a few.

It is all such a wild circus of creativity and beauty that comes to me via these blogs and I enjoy them so much.  If I never make every single project that I yearn to make, I have still shared in the making, I believe by viewing the creative spirit of these blogs and the people who create them.  It is a blessing to me.

Honoring Bill

I came to my blog this rainy, dark evening in the North, to tell my tale since I last wrote.  My companion, Bill, died on August 26, due to advanced liver illness.  It seems it always comes sooner than we think it will.  Last summer he spoke of another friend who probably wouldn't last until Christmas.  The friend is terminally ill and still with us.  I have the thought, but Bill you aren't with us.

With the support of many I have muddled through since he died..  People have been there and done things for me that I never would have guessed were something I needed.  They saw the need and filled it.  

Hospice and the staff were wonderful the last 2 and a half days he was able to be home before passing.  He made a massive effort to get home from the hospital before he died.  A Hospice nurse and Linda G. inched him slowly in the door of our house and he had to repeatedly sit down before getting to the hospital bed set up in our living room.   The day before when I'd visited him at the hospital he had walked up and down the hallway using his walker.  He has been talking and calling people on the phone and seeing visitors.  I was unbearably shocked when I came the next day to take him home.  He was so weak, barely walking to his hospital room door with the walker.

I have written else where about our last night together.  He was moving on and heavily medicated with the elixir given to the dying to ease the passage from life to death.  Linda G. who had some experience with the dying explained the process that they go through.  The Hospice nurse had told me she doubted he would last the weekend.  Karl came to see him.  He wanted to see his friend one last time.

I sang to Bill, held his hand, prayed the Lord's Prayer and Serenity Prayer.  I think his last conscious words to me were "I love you."  It's so hard to let go of  Bill, even now.

He died at 3 an that morning.  I was on the phone to a close friend and looked over and he died then.  She told me, "I think he didn't want you to be alone when he died."

I have a small Christmas shrine at my desk in honor of him.  There is a smiling picture of him looking out from  the table where he sat doing a jig saw puzzle.  I have a small cross stitching that I did that states, "Bless this house with love and laughter."  There is my small, wooden painted prayer box, and a small tree decorated with beads and at the back a candle in a glass with the Serenity Prayer on it.

I honor Bill this way.

A Quiet, Unspoken Wish

As many adults my age, I have seen the passing of my parents, 2 siblings, a brother-in-law, grandparents, and other relatives.  It is a loss one never "gets over," though one must realize that life goes on and one must keep living.  Writing in this blog is one way that helps me heal from the losses I've experienced.  I've had a wish that I could write some of the stories of those that have passed.  My fear is that somehow I won't get it quite right when I write about them.  But my hope is that I may capture their essence and somehow give my loved ones a life beyond what has been lost.

Please indulge me when I write about my loved ones.  And I would do the same for you, if by any chance, you needed a listening ear.

Neal was the heart of my immediate family.  A piece of advice he gave me when we were both adults was about the workplace.  His advice was that if a co-worker got promoted or received recognition, pat them on the back and buy them a drink.  No room for resentment and jealousy in this advice, was and still is my thought.  I'm not sure I could always live up to that admonition, but I know Neal would and did.

Not to say he was an angel or always did the right thing.  He could listen to an obscene Eddie Murphy monologue with the nieces and nephews at Christmas time, like any good uncle.  He was a cigarette smoker and enjoyed a good drink.

He graduated from high school in 1967 and entered the Navy soon after.  He did two tours of duty on aircraft carriers in the Tonkin Gulf during the Viet Nam Conflict.  He saw a man get blown away on their ship once due to an accident.  He visited Japan and developed a love for Japanese culture.  He was in an airport rest room once and standing next to him at another urinal was a man in drag.  Quite an experience for the small town country boy.  Another experience he told me about was getting back to the states and knowing "something was wrong" because of all the military clothes in the restroom trash...discarded due to the hostile reception military folks received back in the states.  I asked him once why he enlisted.  He told me, "I was patriotic."

Jobs were hard to come by after he left the Navy.  He had some tough years.  He attended college and received his B.A. in English through the G.I. Bill.  He still struggled to find employment.  He worked at the bowling alley for a while as a manager.  He then worked at the local newspaper and printing business, doing color separation when that was part of the printing process and printing presses were actually still in use.  I see it as an accomplishment that he headed and succeeded in making it a union shop for the printing workers.  A lot of the time he had some very thankless, under appreciated years, but he was well-loved by his family.  Always.

My father told a story once of Neal as a teenager accompanying him on a veterinarian call to doctor a horse.  Neal was in the stall trying to steady a highly excitable stallion.   The stallion backed Neal into the stall.  Dad said to him,  "Don't you open your peep or move, Neal," and somehow Dad quieted the horse and Neal got out of the stall.

Neal, don't you move.  I want you to stay right where you are in my memory.  Don't move.

How Are the Bees Doing?

As Bill, my companion, is a beekeeper, I occasionally receive a question about how the bees are doing or are they producing honey, etc.  Most have heard about the prevalence of Colony Collapse Disorder and the dying of whole bee colonies in the U.S.  It would be a terrible catastrophe, if bees died out.  I read one statistic that humans would die out in 5 years if bees ceased to exist.  The reason for this is that bees are the prime pollinators of plants, including fruits and vegetables. 

Bill has a few hives for his own use and as a hobby.  When his father, Paul, died in 1985, he made the statement, "the bee business will all go to Hell after I die,"  and it has in a sense.  Paul's words foreshadowed this current crisis in the beekeeping world.  According to Bill, his father made this statement as a general statement about the bee business.  In the 1980's, mites, that Bill states look like tiny red crabs, came in on a ship into Lake Ontario.  There are other types of mites that prey on bees, as well as diseases, like American Foul Brood and European Foul Brood.  American Foul Brood or "A" is the worst and generally, beekeepers burn the whole hive if it is found to have "A."  They must disinfect footwear, clothing, hive tools, and other implements if coming into contact with it.  It can spread from bee yard to bee yard if care is not taken, like any disease can spread.

Occasionally something will be released in the media, about possible causes of Colony Collapse Disorder.  One possible cause is the existence of pesticides in the environment which weaken bee colonies.  Bee colonies are highly complex and the answers to their collapse may not be simple ones.  Research is being done at many universities, such as the specialized Dyce Lab at Cornell which studies bees and honey production, looking for solutions to the problem.  There are several agricultural organizations that promote  honey and bees like the Empire State Honey Producers Association, Inc.   Bill and his father attended "bee meetings" throughout the country in the 1960's and 1970's.  At these meetings, innovations and knowledge is shared by beekeepers to assist each other.  In Northern NY, the Sustainable Living Project, a non-profit which has a green philosophy and initiative, has been helping local beekeepers in St. Lawrence County to learn and share knowledge.  A recent workshop by a master beekeeper, Mark B., of Brasher consisted of learning to ignite a smoker and keeping it smoking to calm the bees.  Some of the materials used in a smoker are discarded bailer twine, dried pine needles, and the dry red sumac cones.

The wise beekeeper keeps his or her smoker ignited, or suffer the consequences of angry bees.

And the Last Word?

I'm not sure I've ever understood the concept of "getting the last word."  Is it some primal act that has pursued humans through the millenia, this need to get the last word?  In one instance I've encountered  it with someone I worked with.  As we would leave at quitting time and exchanged pleasantries wishing each other a good evening, I found that my coworker would always speak after I spoke.  Somehow it irked me to experience this.  Inevitably I allowed the coworker to get the last word.  And you might ask, who was in control here?  I have never figured it out, but feel a certain anxiety and queasiness about this coworker still.

Now I experience the feeling again as I have entered the world of chat on the Internet.  I'm clumsy enough as it is when it comes to chat.  I don't know all the abbreviations and when I figured out what LMFAO means, I still cringe a little bit.  Not that I don't ever use the word in cursing when the cat knocks something down at 3 am and I step on my car keys by accident and set off the the panic button to my vehicle and it starts honking until Bill has located the keys so I can turn off the horn.  And that was the comment on Facebook when I reported this event as my morning status.  You're right----LMFAO.

On the topic again....I find myself experiencing the last wordedness phenomenon when I do chat on Facebook or on other social networks.  To be honest, the only other social network I've joined is The Experience Project.  So while I am chatting with you and you "LOL" or lower case "lol" along with me, I tend to get very wordy and descriptive and want to really carry on a conversation with you in depth.  Will you really mind if I do that?  And when it comes time for one us to sign off or maybe you or I go offline or have to answer the telephone, get Bill his strawberries, or the cat keeps jumping on my laptop, I feel awkward.

I would love to be there and give you a hug or see if you are truly "feeling fine" like you told me or if you are stressed and needed some human contact.  Or if you have friended me on the social network without having a clue who I am and are taking bets with your cronies on some plan to totally embarrass me and have a good LMFAO at my expense....do you still want to have the last word?  The good person that I want to be will let you have it.

Dance of the Caregiver

Caregiving is something that one hears about quite often in the course of the day to day.  Someone may have the care of an older relative, a parent, a child with a severe disability, and the possibilities are many and varied.  I am finding in the care of my companion as he slowly recovers from 3 stays in the hospital in the last 2 months, that there is kind of a delicate dance of meeting his needs and taking care of my own needs.

I think there has been many things written about care giving.  The one that comes to mind is "Caregiver Therapy" one of the Abbey Press Elf Help booklets that address human concerns in a way that gives a light touch to serious topics.  These books are all illustrated by R.W. Alley.  The caregiver book is written by Julie Kuebelbeck and Victoria O'Connor.  I need to buy a copy to help me cope with some of the stress I've been experiencing.  I am finding it is taking a lot of my inner strength and resources to manage the household and give Bill the care he needs.  Some things I'm letting slide.  They will be finished in some eventuality, I tell myself.

He is gradually growing stronger and able to do more for himself.  I get cranky, though, when I get tired and my energy is waning.  We are having healthier meals and using more fresh vegetables. I'm planning meals more carefully.  But I have to tell you I have a lot of dirty dishes that I'm having difficulty getting washed.  Writing it here and being open about my struggles will help me, I know.    The trips to the laundromat are tiring, also.  A little voice in the back of my mind tells me I SHOULD have been better prepared for this happening----the time involved in hospital visits and driving to Syracuse for 2 hours and home again.

He is being a prince when I get cranky and tells me he loves me.  I tell myself I've been ill many years past and had help while I was recovering.  This time with Bill's illness there have been many who have helped us and stepped up with support and kindness.  Our neighbor built a step to the bedroom so that it was easier to step up into where there had been only one high 10 inch step.   Someone loaned us a walker when Bill was very weak and needed the extra help.  He was very concerned about a credit card payment, and a friend went to the store and paid it for him.  Several have visited him in the hospital, even in Syracuse.  There have been gifts of many kinds given to us during this difficult time. 

So one dances a dance at times of illness, giving and taking and accepting and asking.  There is the interweaving of help and helplessness.  There is the music of friend's and family's concern and caring voices that accompanies me in the care giving journey I'm on these last few months.  I'm thankful for all I've received and learned in this dance.   My steps are clumsy once in awhile, but I stumble on and pick myself again for the next round.

The Secret Room

One day this week, I received an excited knock at my door and my brother announced that a secret room had been discovered in the next door house where we grew up.  It had been purchased by a lovely family who are doing major renovations to the house.  In the floor of what my family called the dining room, a small room with a wooden slat trap door over it had been discovered by C. as he was tearing up old flooring.

I handed my brother a disposable camera and asked him to get pictures and in a few minutes, I went over to the house to see the secret room.  It was very exciting to see this little room that had been hidden under linoleum and homesote for so many years without our knowledge.  We wondered if it could possibly be a hiding place on the Underground Railroad.  I took more pictures and T. explained that their dachshund had run across and actually fallen into the room.  C had. retrieved her and stated he didn't want to go into the small enclosure again and would be closing it up soon.

There are some local houses noted for being stops during the era of the Underground Railroad.  I contacted the local town historian and while he said it sounded very interesting, he didn't believe this particular house was noted for it.  He politely asked for copies of the pictures that we took and referred  me to another historian in the county who has made a study of the Underground Railroad in our area.  I felt my excitement wane somewhat when hearing this.  I did contact the other historian and told him what I had been told by Mr. L. 

One of my sisters has sent me a few Internet links on cisterns in old houses, and this may be the answer to what the secret room might be.  One of the links actually showed a picture of a cistern with the small wooden trap door in it.  Our father often mentioned that our shower in the cellar had been built from an old cistern in the house and maybe the secret room was the remains of the original.  It's placement I think is close to where C. found the secret room.

How many of us growing up in big old houses wondered if there were secret rooms and passageways in our houses?  Reading books like the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis will foster this daydreaming of the secret places in our growing up places and even in our hearts.

I still laugh when I think of my brother's comment to me as I viewed the secret room this past week:  "We didn't find any buried treasure!"  He would dig holes as a boy looking for buried treasure.  I think the treasure was knowing there had been a secret room in house and not knowing it all the many years we lived there.  And if my parents knew about it, having built that shower from the cistern many years ago, they never told us.  I can hear my Dad's laughter now.

A Day for the Young and the Young at Heart

The first day of Daylight Savings Time burst forth today with temperatures reaching the mid 50's.  While waiting in my vehicle in the grocery store parking lot for Bill to do some shopping, I observed several in short sleeves striding purposefully to and from the store.  I assume the wonderful weather had added some energy and a boost to their purpose of the moment.

The physically young looked relaxed and happy to be enjoying this beautiful day.  Those with more age seemed to walk a little slower, almost a little tentative, as if not quite believing that the worst of winter was over.  The last week has been difficult for many families in this town.  There have been several deaths.  The people who passed were generally 50 or older, which still seems young and a shock and tremendous loss.  Somehow it seems harder to just bounce back when faced with so many losses in the village.   I find myself privately shaking my head and telling myself that this is a part of life.  I wonder how many others grieve privately this week and the coming weeks, trying to make some sense of a death due to cancer or suicide or car accident.

I find myself turning to the Bible for answers and comfort for my own disquiet and questions.  I feel on edge and anxious.  I read inspirational meditations that I receive daily in my email.  It all helps, but I still feel a hollow place inside.

It's been a glorious early Spring day.  Why would one think such thoughts  when the sun is shining, the sky is a bright blue, and the breeze gradually warms during the day?  Maybe knowing there is darkness in the light, makes the light and warmth even more so to me.

Finding answers to these thoughts may not be my goal today.  Being able to express my questions may be all that can fulfilled for me.  In the asking, there is a sense of fulfillment.  And that may fill up the hollowness a little bit.