Saturday Morning……Lost

I never get lost in Podunk. I have lived here most of my life. I can show you were Sears used to be when the store was downtown. And Penney’s and JJ Newberry’s and Woolworth’s. They are all gone now, or out at the mall. And I remember when people thought Mr. Ruddy was crazy for building his store out in the “boonies” on Mooney Blvd. It was just a two-lane road that headed south to Mooney’s Grove, the local park.

It is a beautiful, sunny, spring day in Podunk. As I drove down my street, my neighbor, Ron, was magically turning his front hedge into gum drops. Elsewhere, folks were in the middle of bigger projects, filling pickup truck beds with tree trimmings and other ephemera. I saw a man, holding his coffee mug, just staring at his yard. I can only imagine the great things he was planning. I can’t wait to see what he does.

Winter is over and Podunk is coming back to life. The trees and flowers are blooming, lawns are green, and yard sale signs are sprouting up all over. I drove west from my house to the school where my grandsons play baseball. I was late for the little one’s baseball game, on Field 6.

As I drove down the street that is due west of the school, there was no place to park. Cars lined the street on both sides. To the east, the school grounds were alive with baseball games. To the west, the park was the hub of activity for soccer games. Families, ice chests, chairs, umbrellas and strollers everywhere.

I walked the path that leads to the main field. Each baseball diamond is labeled with a number. I found Fields 2, 3, 4, 5 and 7. Can you see an obvious omission? I needed to find Field 6. I fumbled in my purse, trying to find my cell phone. I must have left it at home. And so, I walked. I walked and looked and listened.

I heard parents and coaches: “Good job, buddy, you got a piece of it!” I heard players: “Come on, Jack, you can do it!” I saw kids playing baseball and smaller kids playing with their toys. There was a blanket spread carefully in the shade of a tree. On it, three little girls were enthralled with a Barbie dollhouse. You know, the kind that folds up and has a carrying handle? Or maybe you don’t know….

We’re in that seasonal transition. Some people were wearing sweatshirts, pants, and UGGs. Others were in shorts and tank tops, and flip flops. You know, flip flops are the California State Shoe. We wear them all year. And only dorks wear them with socks.

As I walked around looking for my grandson and family, I was warmed by the sunshine, enjoying the sights and sounds, and living in the moment. I wasn’t upset because I couldn’t find anybody. I was thrilled that I am still able to walk great distances without any problem. And I enjoyed the walk.

Since I simply couldn’t find anybody, and there was a likelihood that the game was over anyway, I decided to head back to my car. I brought the older one, the Explorer, in case I bought some flowers at the nursery. I always carry an old quilt in the back and keep the back seat folded down. I headed for Home Depot….

Again, I was entertained by the sights, the sounds, and this time, the smells. Orange trees blooming, carnations, and roses, to name a few. I could hear birds chirping and doves cooing. I looked up and saw the nests in the rafters. Mama birds were feeding hungry babies. Nests were built precariously above the cement floor of the nursery. That would be all the motivation I would need to learn to fly…

The flowers were absolutely beautiful. Abundant blooms, plush foliage, pungent, pleasing odors, and lots of variety. People walking up and down the aisles, loading their carts with good intentions, and plants, and steer manure and other lovely things. Neighbors greeting neighbors. I saw one of our OB/GYN physicians speaking to an OB nurse…..they were comparing the plants they were both purchasing.

Yet, with all that variety, and all the lovely things to choose from, I left empty-handed. I know just exactly what I want and they didn’t have any. I will look elsewhere. And what is it that has caught my fancy? The lowly potato bush. I have seen them in my travels as a home health nurse. My next door neighbor has one that hangs over the fence and beautifies my humble yard.

I actually bought a potato bush last year. I was at Target, cutting through the nursery to go into the store and there it was. It said: “take me home” and I did. And I neglected it, too. In fact, I had to decide eventually: 1) throw it in the trash; or 2) stick it in the ground and water it. It was nothing more than a brown stick with dead leaves when I decided to give it another chance. I planted it behind a huge nandina, knowing that no one would see my poor little neglected plant…..

And now, it is blooming in glorious shades of purple. It will continue to bloom all summer and into the fall. That is why I want more of them. I will plant them along the back fence, neglect them, and they will make me smile every time I look at their beautiful purple flowers.

So, I got lost and ended up losing a whole Saturday morning. I have nothing to show for my efforts: no baseball stories, no visit with my family and no potato bush. Not exactly the stuff of the Great American Novel…..

But definitely the stuff of a pleasant Saturday morning in Podunk….

I Love My Cowboy Boots!

They are for-reals cowboy boots: Durango boots in brown, distressed leather. They have the little thingys on the sides to help pull them up. And pointy toes. Yup, they’re for-reals cowboy boots!

I have had them for four years but, until this year, I had only worn them once. I went to a party wearing a long skirt, long-sleeve tee shirt, Levi’s jean jacket, and my boots. It was a cool outfit but, not practical for everyday wear.

My first pair of cowboy boots came from my younger brother: he was a hippie attending Cal Berkeley and didn’t need black cowboy boots with colorful stitching…..I loved ‘em! I was a young mommy with 3 kids under 5 years old and hardly any clothes. I wore men’s jeans, tee shirts, and feminine sweaters back then…….oh, and my cowboy boots!

Well, this fall, I bought boot-cut jeans. They are cool: tight in the butt and thighs and belled at the bottom, so my boots fit underneath. I think it looks hokey to wear your jeans tucked into the top of the cowboy boots. Nope, I don’t do that.

Anyhow, it’s not the look of the boots that I love: it’s the way they make me feel. I am tall and long ago, in high school, I learned to slouch to make me the same height as the guys. Wasn’t exactly an attractive look: rounded shoulders, rounded back, head hanging down. Not attractive at all. But that’s the price I paid for being tall. Like I had any control over my height……..

Well, now I don’t care. I am as tall as I am, period. Fortunately, my legs go all the way down to my feet. Things just work better that way…..Anyway, when I wear my cowboy boots, with a 1 ½ inch heel, I stand up tall, shoulders back and a smile on my face. Here I am, world, deal with it! And that feels good.

I am wearing my boots right now. I walk differently when I wear them: kinda feminine still but, with an attitude. And I love the sound of my boots when I walk across the hardwood floors. Ain’t no way I could sneak up on anybody…..even a deaf person! I don’t care, it’s loud….stomp, stomp, stomp….and I love it.

I went to Michael’s this afternoon to get ribbon to decorate a wreath for the front door. There was a guy in there who kept staring at me; I don’t know why, he just was. I was talking to someone I used to work with and, every time I looked, that guy was still staring at me. I just stood up taller and smiled at my friend…….

Ron and I both worked for the same employer. He was treated poorly and he retired. I had the same Director and was unfairly disciplined but, I decided to stay and keep my benefits. And this afternoon, when we left the store, my friend told me: “hang in there” and I told him that “I will prevail.” His response: “the good ones always do!”

You know, I might start wearing my cowboy boots to work!

I Love to Dance...

Not ballroom dancing, or line dancing, or tap dancing, or ballet, or folk dancing. Just dancing. You know: music playing have to get up and get happy? Snap my fingers, shake my booty, rock around, smile, and get happy.

It all starts with music. I love music, too. Naturally. Although, I have witnesses who can tell you that I can dance with or without music. Maybe it’s just in my head. The music, that is. Listening to music makes me happy and being happy makes me want to dance. Simple enough.

The first music I remember was sung to me by my daddy: he didn’t know any “baby tunes” so he just sang Broadway tunes. The first music I really remember listening to was a recording of the Marine Corps Hymn, Anchors Away, etc. I learned them all…….ever seen a little 4-year-old girl, with piggy tails, singing the Marine Corps Hymn?? It’s pretty funny, actually. I would stand as straight and tall as I could, with my hand over my heart. Bless my parents; they were able to listen without laughing. I don’t know how.

We used to go to the Marines Memorial Club in San Francisco when we were in the city (in California, no need to say San Francisco, it is”the city”). My daddy would dance with me: my feet on top of his shoes, and twirling around the dance floor to the wonderful music of the dance band.

When I was a little older, he tried to teach me to follow……..listening to his music on the radio. I guess I just didn’t get it. Didn’t matter: I spent my high school years being a “wallflower”. Who would want to dance with a girl who is too tall, too smart, and wears glasses?? Let me answer that for you: nobody.

Then came college. And college dances. Football game and dance. Basketball game and dance. And finally, I got to dance! A guy would smile at me and I would turn around, behind me, to see who he was smiling at, just like Ducky in “Pretty in Pink.” And we danced. And I couldn’t follow. So we did the fast dances. I would look around at the other girls and just mimic what they were doing.

First husband: two left feet. Didn’t like to dance, didn’t want to learn. We went to our class reunions and he had all his friends ask me to dance so I would leave him alone………..

Second husband: two left feet and deaf in one ear. Did you ever see the movie “Best in Show”?? There’s a guy in it who really has two left feet! Well, not really really but, in the movie really. No need to worry about dancing. We didn’t.

No, I dance solo. Nobody to “follow”, no feet to step on, no dependence on being asked to dance. Just me, my stereo, my eclectic taste in music, and my two happy feet. I usually don’t like to dance when anybody is watching; I am very bashful about it. In fact, there is only one man who has ever seen me dance and he was smiling so, I guess it was okay.

Dancing makes me happy. That is proven scientifically: exercise releases endorphins which give us that “feel good” feeling that we also get from S-E-X and from substances that are obtained illegally. I get to feel good without being addicted. I have also found that it is hard for me to dance without smiling. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the endorphins.

I have music loaded in my laptop: I “rock out” at least three times a day. Music from the 80’s, mostly, with a few favorites from the 60’s. No disco, no line dancing. I can do the “Mashed Potatoes” with the best of ‘em, the Twist, the Bristol Stomp (the kids in Bristol are sharp as a pistol, when they do the Bristol Stomp!), and I can even do the hula. I like the arm movements; very graceful.

Dancing, for me, is relaxing. It is a good way to de-stress after a stressful day. It is also good exercise, believe it or not. I have lost nearly 30 pounds recently and people are always remarking about the weight loss and asking me for my secret. That’s easy: cashews and dancing. I eat one, sometimes two meals a day, and handfuls of cashews in between.

It isn’t the cashews that have helped, though, it’s the dancing. I eat when I’m stressed and, if I can get rid of the stress, I don’t need to eat. It’s that simple. The dancing has also put my cholesterol levels back in the normal range.

My LDL (bad cholesterol, think Lucifer) is at high normal. My doctor wants the level at 70. I do not and will not take statins for cholesterol control, so I asked him: “how?” He looked at me and smiled:

“More ‘Mashed Potatoes’!!”

Sports Grandmas….

I never pushed my kids to play sports but, when they expressed a desire, I was supportive. I took them to and from practice, served as scorekeeper, was the “team nurse”, and did my time in the snack bar. I liked that they were interested in team sports. There are so many lessons to be learned besides how to play the game.

They learned discipline, they learned to take direction, they learned to participate in a group activity and do their part to achieve team goals, they learned to be good sports, and they learned the agony of defeat. They learned that you don’t always get on the best team and you don’t always get picked first.

They also learned that some of the cruelest people in the world are the parents of the other team. They gained insight into just how immature some so-called adults can be. They learned that there are coaches who have no problem screaming at, and ridiculing young players. They also learned that their mother would not tolerate such behavior and didn’t mind telling the coach.

So, this afternoon, I watched the next generation play baseball. My son’s son is now the baseball star in our family. He is 12 and plays in the American Youth Baseball League. It is supposedly more competitive than Little League. This is where you play if you want to play baseball when you grow up. We’ll see.

Over behind the fence, slightly left of home plate, there were four women sitting fairly close together. The first was the scorekeeper for our team. The next was my grandson’s maternal grandmother, the next one was his grandfather’s wife, and the last one was me, his paternal grandmother.

The scorekeeper asked me which kid I was “with” and I told her. Then she asked my ex-husband’s wife, and she told her; and finally, she asked his maternal grandmother and she told her. Yes, through divorce, remarriage and lots of years……we were all there for the same kid—and his team.

My grandson had three RBI’s, caught two fly balls in right field and, when the game went into overtime, tied at 6 runs each, he had the dubious honor of going in as relief pitcher. The boys were doing a great job and had managed to tie the team that has won the league championship “for years.”

Top of the seventh, score tied and the other team is leading off with their 1 – 2 – 3 batters. Lots of pressure there…..and my grandson pitched a clean strike on his first pitch. In fact, it was three up, three down.

Bottom of the seventh. The thunderheads loomed ominously over the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Dark rain clouds were gathering in the sky over Podunk, and it was getting harder to see. Our last chance to score started out with a new pitcher for the opponents and the bottom of our batting order. The other team also had a girl playing catcher. Not a token player, either. She can throw as hard and as far as any boy on her team and, as catcher, she is a force to be reckoned with.

In what was undoubtedly the most exciting youth baseball game I have ever watched, we managed to get a runner on base and advance him to third before getting two outs. The batter walked up to the plate, bottom of the seventh—in overtime—with two outs and one runner on third base.

No pressure here…….none at all.

And the poor batter is not a power hitter. In fact, he was 2 and 1 when the deciding pitch came across the plate. It was a wild one and the catcher lost it. The runner on third raced home and slid across the plate. Safe! We won. We beat the team that was undefeated. We did it in overtime.

And my grandson, the pitcher who got credit for the win, came over to us after the game, hugged all three of his grandmas, and listened to us praise him for being the best player, best pitcher, best fielder, and best grandson in the whole wide world!

Win or lose……

I Don't Have To, If I Don't Want To!

I’m tired of doing what I am supposed to do. It’s spring, the sun is shining and I want to play. The lilac bushes are blooming in my yard. They were planted a very long time ago by my mother. I went outside and picked a bouquet for my table. I was supposed to be doing the laundry.

I seem to be drowning in responsibility these days. Things in my life fall into three general categories: the “have-to’s” the “should’s “ and the “want to’s.” Funny thing, the “have-to’s” always have the upper hand, the “want-to’s” get short-changed and I just seem to ignore the “shoulds”.

You see, it’s all about consequences. It is the “have-to’s” that have the negative consequences. You know what I mean: I have to pay my taxes, I have to pay the rent, I have to go to work, and I have to feed my dogs. Why? I don’t want to deal with the consequences if I don’t do those things.

Now the “shoulds”? Different story. Do you know the difference between a “have-to” and a “should”? About three days……For instance, I “should” get my income taxes done. Oh well. Maybe later. And later occurs on April 11th. Then paying my income taxes magically moves from being a “should” to being a “have-to”……

I love that saying: “If it weren’t for the last minute, I’d never get anything done”! That is the story of my life! I know I “should” be more organized and motivated but, I don’t “have-to” if I don’t “want to.” And that is the category that seems to get left behind: the “want-to’s”. I never seem to get there.

I seem to spend my whole day in the “have-to” category. I have to get up, I have to go to work, I have to do my job, and I have to do my charting in a timely fashion. I think that phrase is stupid: “timely fashion.” What is so fashionable about being timely? And what is so timely about fashion? And who decides what is “timely” anyway? Doesn’t matter: it still has to be done.

And the “shoulds”? I think I will erase that category. After all, the “shoulds” will become “have-to’s” so I can ignore them until then, right? And what about the “want-to’s”? Maybe I need to rethink that whole category.

This is where I take my cue from a friend of mine: his name is Mckay and he is six years old. Two weeks ago, he spent all his waking hours bouncing a basketball. You couldn’t pry it out of his hands. Yesterday, I watched him play baseball. And now, he has a glove on one hand and a ball in the other. He knows what he wants to do and he does it. Maybe he will grow out of it; I hope not.

Three years ago, at the ripe old age of three, he got his neon green goggles. He wore them for two days, non-stop. He wouldn’t take them off for anybody. If you asked him why, the answer was simple: “I don’t want to.” He didn’t take them off until he wanted to……

So, maybe I just need to rethink my categories. Maybe the “want-to’s” really belong in the “have-to” category. I already got rid of the “should” category….all I ever got from that was guilt. Of course, now the “have-to” category will be quite crowded but, after all, aren’t there consequences if I don’t do the things I want to do, too?

So, I have finished the laundry. I will relax and enjoy myself for the rest of the day. Why? Because I “have to” relax. And tomorrow morning, I “have to” get up when the alarm goes off, get ready for work, go to work, do my job and complete all my charting. I will do it with a smile on my face, as if I want to do it. I will be successful in accomplishing all those things I have to do. But, before my work day starts?

I will eat jelly beans for breakfast!

Magical Memories...

My early childhood was magical. Truly. The magician was my Daddy, and I was his best audience! Sometimes, he let me help him with the magic. Other times, I was the willing subject of his tricks.

If I had every quarter he ever pulled out of my ear, I could retire! Actually, the money would help offset all the times I fell for my older brother’s favorite trick: he would trade me my “little” dimes for his great big, shiny nickels! I fell for that every time. I think that, if you look up “gullible” in your Funk and Wagnall’s, my baby picture is there!

Daddy’s tricks were always meant to delight me, not make me poor, like big brother did. I would stand in the middle of the front seat, holding on to my daddy’s shoulder, when we went anywhere in the car. That was centuries before child safety seats and, quite frankly, I don’t think I could have been any safer than I felt standing next to my daddy.

When we traveled at night, he would let me switch the headlights from high beams to low beams, and vice versa. I don’t know how you might do that but, I did it with the wave of my hand! Daddy would tell me when, and I would wave my hand: the beams would switch magically! I was so proud of that trick! Daddy would be grinning and Mommy would say: “good girl”!

He could also predict when a train was coming. He would tell me to watch for the train, it was coming. I would strain to see and soon, there it was indeed! It was years before I realized that he could see the headlight on the train long before I could see the train itself…….

The very best trick of all was his “Super Vision”. My parents had a friend who had a small airplane. He came to visit us and was going to take us up for a flight in the plane. He also loved kids, so he brought Tootsie Rolls to my brother and me. We snuck out in the front yard into our “fort”, a group of bushes near the driveway, and ate the candy. We threw the wrappers in the bushes, confident that no one would see them. An hour later, we were aloft in the Piper Cub, marveling at the earth below us. As the friend flew us over our house, my daddy exclaimed: “who left candy wrappers in the bushes?” Amazing!! How did he do that??

Of course, as I grew up, I did eventually get smarter. It was a bittersweet revelation to know that my daddy wasn’t really magic. It was my childhood that was magical!

Thank you, Daddy!

Degrees...

I woke up late this morning. Well, not really late, just late by Daylight Savings Time. It takes me a couple of weeks to get adjusted to the time change. I should have all the clocks reset—by the time the time changes again…

I didn’t get into the office until 10. I needed to speak to the Intake nurse about a couple of cases I admitted to home health services over the weekend. I got the information I needed, got the charting finished, and transmitted the information to the server.

One of our newer nurses was in the office at the same time I was. She was doing the same thing I was: catching up on paperwork. It made her feel better to see that one of the “seasoned nurses” was “behind”, too. We talked for a long time about all the things that tug at us: job, home, kids, laundry, grocery shopping, and housework. We both agreed that we are tired way too often.

I shared a couple of “tricks of the trade” with her; things she can do to make her life easier. One of the easiest “fixes” in this type of work is a fax machine. I can send and receive vital information via my fax machine and not have to go into the office. She liked that idea and is planning to get one soon.

After I was finished in the office, I went to the grocery store. I saw some items on sale that a patient of mine uses and likes. She is homebound and can’t get out to the grocery store. So, I bought them for her. And she loves cookies: I bought her favorite kind….sugar cookies with frosting on top. They are decorated for St. Paddy’s Day….

When I got to her home, the door was locked. It is never locked. I always just walk in the house. I looked in the front window. She wasn’t sitting in her chair in the family room, where she always sits. I rang the doorbell. My heart was beating a little faster: her “Meals On Wheels” lunch was sitting on the chair on the front porch.

Finally, her son, Jeff, answered the door. It seems she is not feeling well and was lying down on her bed. I went in and sat on the bed and talked to her for a long time. She is nauseated today, and felt a little dehydrated. I was glad that I brought her the flavor of Gatorade that she particularly likes. I put some ice in her favorite mug and poured her a glass and took it to her.

We continued to talk as I made sure that she drank her Gatorade. I helped her up to the bathroom and then tucked her back into bed. She is tired and needs to rest. I will see her again tomorrow to do her wound care.

When I got home, I talked to my best friend. We were talking about school and degrees and such. He wants me to finish my BSN since I am so close to having it. He says that I have “earned it” and I “deserve” it. Of course, he is prejudiced but, I think he is right. I think my thirty plus years of registered nursing practice should give me the units of experience that I need to graduate.

And I think I will probably finish my degree, eventually. The problem I have with it right now is that I love what I do, I love my patients, I believe that I fill a need in our community, I can do it without the degree and I am too lazy to go to school.

By the way, did I mention that today is my day off?

Memoirs of a Seasoned Nurse: The Psych Ward

It was the first day of our psych rotation. We were at a mental health facility in a neighboring community. Not a lock-down unit but, we needed a key for everything: the unit, the nurse’s station, the bathroom, everything.

We met just outside the unit at 0800. We were let in by one of the night nurses. The person who took us on a tour of the facility was named Jolene. We saw the patient rooms, exam rooms, storeroom, and nurses’ station. I seemed to be the only one who was bothered by the fact that WE had to unlock the doors and let Jolene in, and she was not wearing shoes.

When we returned to the main lobby at the end of the tour, several staff members were gathered around and were having trouble stifling their snickers. It seems that Jolene was one of the patients………duh!! The staff thought it was insanely funny to watch this manic-depressive patient, fully “ramped up,” scurrying around the facility with all these dumb-struck nursing students in tow.

Please don’t think that we used to lock up people for being manic-depressive. I think the term is now bipolar, and there is no crime in being bipolar. No, Jolene’s “crime” was impatience: she couldn’t wait to pick up her burger and fries so she pushed the car in front of her in the drive-thru out of the way. Note to impatient people: do that to a police cruiser, go to jail! She also went to test drive a new car once: fortunately, the car salesman walked behind the car after helping her get into the driver’s seat. Before he could get to the passenger door, she was gone, clocked at 100 mph on Main Street. We really liked Jolene: she did the things we wanted to do but we were too chicken.

Back to my story: after the tour, we were escorted downstairs to the basement conference room to meet the facility director. As he began his presentation about mental health nursing, I couldn’t help but raise my hand. “Excuse me, sir, I know you SAY that you are the facility director but, do you happen to have any ID?” Unphased by my question, he produced both his California driver’s license and his California nursing license and showed them to all of us. Satisfied that this was not another member of the patient population, I settled in to listen to his lecture.

One of the “perks” of our mental health rotation was accompanying a Crisis Worker on 5150’s: we accompanied them on call-outs for folks who were a danger to themselves or others. Lucky me: I had the unique privilege of going to the county jail. The patient we saw insisted that he was going to kill himself if he wasn’t let out of jail immediately. After interviewing him, the Crisis Worker arranged ambulance transportation to the mental health unit.

Back in those days, it was always better to be crazy than to be in jail. The mental health unit included semi-private rooms, television, a pool table, crafts activities, and group counseling. And they had the best food of any hospital cafeteria I had ever been in!

One day, just after lunch, the patient I mentioned above from the county jail, went a little nutsy. He lunged at me with his pool cue and yelled that he was “gonna take you out, b***h!” Before he could get to me, another patient punched him in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. The male staff was on scene by then and further subdued him before his trip back to county jail (threaten the staff: go back to jail). Apparently, the girlfriend he had tried to kill was a blonde and, since I was the only blonde female in the facility that day, bingo! My turn to die…not.

In thirty years of nursing I have had to deal with a few nut cases—but they were all surgeons! I have never changed my mind about mental health nursing: it is vital, it is a community service, and it is so not for me!

Thoughts...

Where have all the barns gone? It seems to me that there used to be many more of them dotting the countryside. Were they taken down? Did they fall down? Did they outlive their usefulness?

Sometimes I feel like a barn. Weathered wood. No longer appreciated for what I can still do…remembered only for what I did in my youth.

Oh well…..

It makes me wonder. Will old, weathered, sagging McDonald’s be dotting the countryside? Golden Arches no longer in vogue, or needed, as life has marched right past them? Will they be turned into ethnic restaurants, stripped of their “Mickey D” accoutrements?

Perhaps they will become soup kitchens to feed those who used to have the money to spend on McNuggets and now just want a hot cup of coffee and a slice of bread. Or a bowl of soup. Maybe a bowl of McChicken and McNoodles.

What else will go the way of the barn? Perhaps our whole society will be as weathered and sagging. Left to fall down and rot on the ground. Unnoticed, uncaring, unnecessary.

There was a time in this country when a “barn raising” was a community affair. All the men in the community set aside their own labors to help a neighbor raise a barn. Back then, a barn was a vital part of the everyday process of farming. Not conglomerate farming but, “feed your family” farming.

In a day, the men raised the barn and provided shelter for the farm animals. Meanwhile, the women folk fixed a meal to feed all of them: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, fresh vegetables, cakes and pies and homemade ice cream.

Imagine that happening now…….

But then, who needs a barn? Who has the time and the space to grow their own food? Or raise their own cows and pigs and chickens? How many chickens do you have to sell to make the monthly payments on a BMW? Or, how many eggs would it take for a Subaru payment?

Times have changed. And not necessarily for the better.

I remember hearing my father-in-law talking about the Great Depression. He was just a kid and he didn’t know that the country was falling apart. He lived on a ranch. They grew oranges, walnuts and plums. They also raised pigs and chickens for food for the family.

He remembers his oldest sister turning the frayed collar and cuffs on his school shirt, making it look new again, or faded and newer than it was, but he doesn’t remember ever being hungry.

Is it possible that America, the Land of Opportunity has become America, the Land of Entitlement? I remember when we scrimped and saved to purchase something that cost a lot of money. Today, I would just “charge” it. Is that progress?

I saw this old barn today. It is still standing, still protecting the things inside of it. The owners tell me a lot of people stop and ask if they can photograph this old barn.

Maybe I’m not the only one who misses “the good old days”……

Sunshine In Podunk.....

It’s a beautiful day in Podunk today. The sun is shining, it is fairly warm for early March, and the flowers are starting to bloom.

I am working this weekend, so I put fifty miles on my car, going from one patient’s house to another. I got to head east to another town to do wound care on a very nice lady. I like going to the east side of the valley because of the view of the mountains. The contrasts are amazing: the Sierra Nevadas have snow-capped peaks still, yet the foothills are a beautiful Kelly green right now.

Clouds are hugging the mountains, obscuring the middle third from view. The snow caps peek majestically above the clouds. The foothills, so verdant, are shaded in areas and look just like a painting. Fruit trees are a riot of blossoms, daffodils are everywhere, and even the weeds are green and beautiful. The sky is a bright blue with a few puffy clouds and over in the eastern sky, just above the horizon line, is a faded, three-quarter moon. It looks out of place in the bright spring sky.

As I drove to the office this morning, I saw a “Woody” heading toward one of the local high schools. As I turned on to Main Street, I saw a whole collection of old “Woody’s” from the 30’s and 40’s, lined up on the grass in front of the school and gleaming in the early morning sunlight.

Beautifully restored, the precursors to our SUV’s looked brand new. Shiny paint, finely oiled wood sides, and fat white-walls on the tires. I wish I could have stopped and taken a closer look.

This is a confusing time of year. As I arrived on a cul de sac to make a patient visit, I was careful not to interrupt all the activities. A father and son were tossing a football back and forth on their front lawn. Two young men were shooting baskets in the next yard. And a group of young boys were practicing their batting. Fortunately, my car was out of range.

My own grandsons had games today. Both of them had their last basketball game of the season and their first baseball game of that season. Since I am working, I had to miss the games. Not to worry, my son emailed me their baseball schedules and I will be at those games, cheering them on.

At another patient’s home, the neighbor across the street was on a creeper, underneath his truck. I didn’t notice him at first and I thought his wife, standing there drinking her coffee, was talking to herself. He rolled out from under the truck and then everything made sense to me.

And families were out in droves. Working in the yard, walking the dog, or riding bikes, the sidewalks were dotted with families enjoying their activities. I saw a cute family when I was leaving the last patient’s house. Dad was walking the dog, Mom was pushing a stroller, Older Brother was on his bicycle, and Little Sister, wearing a pink helmet, was riding her Barbie tricycle.

It was also a great day for yard sales. Lots of them. Mostly there were clothes for sale, some baby furniture, and car parts. Since I was working, I didn’t stop and look more closely.

I really don’t mind working on the weekend, but the sunshine made it hard to concentrate. When I finished seeing patients, I still had several hours of charting to do. And so I did the most logical thing I could think of:

I sat outside and enjoyed the sun.

What's In A Name...

It’s funny how some things get started. I have this website now, and I am posting my original writings here. I have become CaliforniaBlonde, it seems…..

When I signed up for an SNS, ten months ago, it took me all of 45 seconds to think of a name and find out it was not taken.. Imagine my surprise when friends told me how hard it had been to get their screen names.

When I chose CaliforniaBlonde, I had no idea that it was the name used by a company that distributes guitar amps. And they are cool looking guitar amps at that. Oh, and if you Google CaliforniaBlonde, you will also find some “Escort Services” with which I am NOT affiliated. And now, for about the last month, if you Google CaliforniaBlonde, you will also find my website, CaliforniaBlondeWrites.com.

Well, getting the screen name was the easy part. Within a month after joining the SNS, I had a new nickname: Cali. Since it is derived from the screen name, and since I like it, it stuck.

But, not completely.

First, there was Calidonia. It is another name for Scotland….and since, I am Irish, and Ireland is nearby, it seemed like a good nickname for my nickname for my screen name. Right? After all, people give me nicknames because they like me. Or my screen name is just too long to use…….

And, of course, since it rhymed and I do live in a valley, I became Cali, Queen of the Valley. I also have a tee-ARRA so, I qualify to proclaim myself as the queen of the valley, I guess. For awhile, it was Cali O’Malley, Queen of the Valley but, that was just too much to put on my stationery and monogrammed towels.

And, yet, there were others who simply reduced my screen name to initials: cb, CB, and even one person who addressed me simply as “C”……I am not sure if it was for California, or Cali. I don’t think I will worry about it.

Then, a few months ago, there was an onslaught of new people on the SNS and in my groups. Members of this onslaught started calling me “Blondie” and that has stuck, too. In the group I manage, I try to comment on every post and, from one post to the next, I may sign Cali, or Blondie, or even Cali Sue.

Cali Sue is one of my newer monikers, self-appointed, to describe a character I have created. Cali Sue is about my age, about my height and weight, and has similar facial features. She doesn’t work, though, and she is married. Her husband, JD, doesn’t want her working outside the home. And their home? A double wide mobile home in a park, hence, Cali Sue is also Queen of the Trailer Park.

Her home is beautifully appointed: she has a special-order davenport in the front room with upholstery depicting cowboys on bucking broncos. Can’t get that in the local store, that’s why she special ordered it. And her kitchen is also beautiful: all the appliances are pink, or “pank” as Cali Sue says, and her decorative accents are all “tur coys”. When she redecorated it, well, it was the talk of the trailer park!

I also have friends who call me “Sis” “Sunshine” “Darlin’” and “Hey you!” I really don’t mind. I see all these names as terms of endearment…..people like me, they really like me!

And I like you, too!

My Family

My family never was very large: mother, father, two brothers, two grandmothers, and one aunt. I had one grandfather, briefly, and then he was gone. Nine people, my whole family.

I just returned home from a basketball game. My six-year-old grandson plays on a city league team. I enjoy watching him play. And I enjoy seeing my family. I was a few minutes late to the game; my dogs had issues this morning and needed me. When I arrived at the game, I took the seat next to my ex-husband, my kids’ dad, and the ball player’s grandpa.

We had a nice visit. He brought me up to speed on how the game was going and let me know that our grandson made two baskets before I arrived. We also agreed that the coach is a wonderful person and has been giving our grandson a good experience in team sports, sportsmanship, and life.

I asked him “where’s your boss?” and he looked at me and smirked. “I am my own boss!” was his reply. I just smiled at him and reminded him that he was only comfortable saying that because she was not there to correct him. It seems she had a difficult customer to deal with; she is in business for herself.

I also wished my son a happy birthday. He was sitting next to his dad, on the other side of him, and we talked among ourselves and enjoyed the game. We are having a dinner party tonight to celebrate his birthday. It will be at my ex-husband’s house. I am bringing the birthday cake. My ex knew exactly how to ask me to bring the cake: “since you make the best chocolate cake in the whole world, why don’t you bring that?” It works every time.

My former daughter-in-law, the ball player’s mom, arrived even later than me. She was in charge of snacks for the team after the game. She walked in carrying several bags of treats. I hugged her when she arrived and we talked about how she is doing. She had surgery recently and is just now walking without crutches.

After the game, I got hugs from the six year old and from his older brother and “I’ll see ya later, Grandma” from both of them. I told the ball player how proud I was of him and he just beamed. He let me take a couple pictures of him but then, he was done with me for now…..He doesn’t realize yet that grandmas aren’t going to be around forever.

I also asked my ex how his mom is doing. She has Alzheimer’s and is in a nursing home. She was my “Other Mother” when I was young and married and having children. She is the one who taught me to cook and showed me how to take care of a baby. And I am the one she remembers. I should be ashamed of myself: she calls my ex’s wife by my name. But somehow, that pleases me. I loved her then and I love her still.

After the game, I walked out to the parking lot with my ex. He has recently bought a new SUV and we were talking about having cars serviced. I told him about the new tire I just recently had put on my car.

For reasons completely unknown to me, I bought the extra warranty when I bought new tires and in January, when one of them blew, I got a new one—free. He asked me why I bought my car where I did, and I told him. As I was discussing my car-buying experience, he was smiling. I know him well enough to know that he was enjoying my story and, more importantly to me, he is proud of me.

Now some might consider it strange that I still consider him family. I would argue the point, if I needed to, but I don’t. Quite simply, we are still related: we have the same children, and grandchildren. Our lives intersect frequently, and we have a similar set of memories. Even though he has been married to his second wife for 25 years, there are things, experiences, that he and I share that she does not know about. I am one of the few people he can talk “old times” with and I know all the places and characters.

And the computer: where would I be without my computer?

I received an email this morning from a “brother” of mine. I have adopted him because he is special to me. Too special to just be a friend. He also has a lady friend, and I am happy for them both, but he is my friend, too. And so, he is my brother and I am his sis. I have three online brothers, actually, and they are as good to me, and as thoughtful of me, as my “real” brothers are. I just met one of them in person about a week ago. It was wonderful: I already know him and he knows me; we just had to catch up on what each of us is doing.

And I have a sister, too. She is the friend, confidante and partner in crime that God didn’t see fit to give me in real life. There was something about her to me and me to her that just clicked. We have had similar experiences in the past; we cry together, share secrets together, and laugh together. And, more important than that, we talk about clothes and shoes and accessories and boyfriends. I have talked to her on the phone many times. Even though we are “of a certain age,” when we have exciting news to share, we have been known to scream like a couple of teenage girls. I couldn’t ask for a better sister.

And my “real” baby brother sent me a message this morning, too. Actually, he is in Southern California this weekend, visiting his daughter at college. She and I “talk” to each other on Facebook. My brother used her account to post a message on my “wall” in Facebook. It was nice to hear from him. And it has been nice to connect with my nieces and nephews, too.

Family. I don’t need to look up the definition; I know what it means to me. It is having people in my life who are important to me. Whether we are “blood relatives”, connected by the proverbial six degrees of separation, or we have just made the conscious choice to be related in some special way…….

We are family.

Moments that Bind, Weddings

Weddings are expensive. My brother’s first wedding was at the Beverly Hills’ Hotel in duh! Beverly Hills, California. Most of us in the groom’s family had to travel to attend the wedding. I was a bridesmaid and my daughter was the flower girl. Trust me, we didn’t stay at the Beverly Hills’ Hotel.

It was fun parking there, for the wedding rehearsal and again for the wedding. They have valet parking. You should have seen the look on the valet’s face when he had to park a Volkswagen Van……..hey! We had three kids and needed the room!

Somehow, the bride’s family decided it was “tradition” for the groom’s family to pay for the flowers. I have no idea how much my parents spent but I do know that the bride’s bouquet alone cost $2000.00. How do I know this? Well, despite having a hyperactive wedding planner, the bride managed to walk down the aisle without her bouquet. You know, the $2000.00 one?

She apologized profusely to my parents, after the wedding, for forgetting to carry it. My mother—you HAD to know my mother—told her: “that’s okay, dear, just don’t put it down, for any reason, for the whole reception. All the reception photos show her, the bride, doing whatever….dancing, talking, hugging, cutting the cake….whatever carrying that damn bouquet!

Oh, and my mother? Smiling in every photo!