One-way Streets

I live in a metropolis. I don’t know what that is but, in my mind, it is a small town that got too big for its britches. Podunk has something that many small towns (pop: 100,000) would envy: a vibrant, revitalized downtown area. We also have all the malls, etc, that cause small towns to sprawl, but our downtown area is beautiful. You can walk down Main Street in the early evening and hear live jazz groups, solo guitarists, or hard rock, if you prefer, wafting out of the open doors. Several restaurants, like my favorite, Alexandra’s, have outdoor dining areas. Main Street: home of the Christmas Parade, St. Patrick’s Day Parade, and the annual Band Review.

We also have one-way streets. What are they good for, anyway? The street I have to take to access the parking lot at work is one-way east. Lots of miles spent getting west of that street so I could go “east”. And what about parking? We have approximately 20 nursing staff and 8 therapists who rely on those 5—yes, five—parking spots. Street parking is only for 2 hours, parking fine is $25.00, don’t ask how I know.

We try to help each other: whoever remembers that it is time to move his or her car, calls out to everyone else “time to move”. The announcement is followed by a stampede of health care workers, dashing out to avoid the “parking nazi” as we call her. Moving your car is an art; you have to see where the chalk marks are before you move your car, and then make sure they have moved when you get to the new parking spot. Chalk marks anywhere on the top third of the tire will get you a ticket, regardless of how recently you moved to that spot; don’t ask me how I know. All I know is that, if nobody remembers to yell out “time to move”, the city is going to make big bucks!

And the parking nazi? She is an urban legend—or should I say metropolitan legend? She has never been observed smiling, not even in her native habitat (somebody saw her in Wal-Mart once). NO excuse is good enough to escape a ticket from her. Nurses are really “sick” people and we have developed a theory about how they hire parking nazis: the candidate is forced to sit in a room and watch a video of puppies or kittens being abused; if they don’t flinch, they have the job! (Sorry, PETA, I made that up: I know of no such video).

In a world full of things that are out of our control, beating the parking nazi at her own game is a bright spot, at least to me. Another bright spot? Those stupid one-way streets! A couple of weeks ago, I needed to move my car. There was a spot open in the parking lot but the street in front of it is one-way EAST. Main Street is one-way EAST. I desperately needed to go WEST! If I followed all the rules, and took the long way around, I stood the chance of losing the parking place. I did the only rational thing I could think of: I pulled up to the one-way EAST street, floored it, and headed WEST about 20 feet into the parking lot! Grabbed my space and got out, pretty proud of myself. No harm, no foul, nobody saw what I did---except the three guys in front of the construction trailer across the street. They were hooting and clapping; I raised a clenched fist in response. No one-way street’s gonna get the best of this broad!

I walked inside the building, thinking I was all that and a bag of chips; then reality set in. I broke the traffic laws (oh, no!) without having in my possession either a valid driver’s license, or current license tags on my car. Both items were in my wallet, in my purse, at my desk, inside the building……….I can just see it now:

Officer: “Ma’am, did you know that this is a one-way street?”

Me: “But officer, I was only going one way!”

Officer: “Ma’am (why do they always call you that?), didn’t you see the arrows?”

Me: “Arrows? Hell, I didn’t even see the Indians!”

Officer: “Ma’am, may I see your driver’s license?”

Me: “Sure, officer, it’s right over there in that building!”

Actually, it probably wouldn’t happen exactly like that anyway. This is still a small town: I would know his parents, his sister, or his wife. We would have had a nice chat and he'd let me go with a warning.

I live in a metropolis……………………..

A Box Full of Joy….

I was looking in the closet today. I vaguely remember some pictures that I have—somewhere—and I wanted to look at them again. But I couldn’t find them. I have boxes full of pictures. You know, those green “marble”cardboard boxes you buy at the office supply store? They come with tabbed dividers and I have attempted to group pictures behind appropriate tabs.

Well, sorta. Theoretically, if I look at the photos and then put them back where they were, they are organized. If I put them back in the box just anywhere, well, they were organized at one time. I guess I get credit for trying. I looked through all those boxes already and couldn’t find the pictures I wanted to see.

So this afternoon, after work, I took a journey through the top shelf of the closet in the master bedroom. Notice I didn’t say “the top shelf of my closet”? I live alone: every closet in the house is MY closet! But the one in the master bedroom was the most likely candidate for finding photos. Only because the closet in the bedroom I use as an office was just recently reorganized so I know what is in it, and the closet in the guest bedroom is full of Christmas….

I love boxes. I have lots of them in all shapes and sizes. Two things they all have in common: they are pretty, with colorful designs, and they are stuffed full of, well, stuff! Today I found every post card my daddy ever sent to me, some of my kids’ report cards, wedding invitations, and pictures of people I don’t remember ever seeing before. I mean, I don’t remember the people OR the picture.

Such discoveries beg the question: why? Why do I keep the wedding invitation from a couple who are now divorced? Why do I still have my kids’ report cards? Well, I know the answer to that one: I offered them to the kids and they collectively said “no thank you” and so, I am stuck with them. I cannot bring myself to throw away report cards.

I sat for the longest time, reading the postcards again. They tell so many tales. Where my daddy traveled, who he was with, what they did and more. Over the course of time, my name changed, my address changed, and my family changed. Daddy wrote postcards from all over the world and I moved all over Podunk.

There are postcards from trips with my mother, then solo trips, then trips with my stepmother. Trips to exotic places, tourist traps, historical sites, and romantic, idyllic locations. All the postcards have one thing in common: they are from my daddy and he loved me. He never forgot to say it, either. Even though I was grown up, married, with three children, and then divorced, I was still his little girl. And he loved me.

And the pictures I found brought a couple hours’ worth of smiles to me. I found a picture of me when I was about two, sitting on my tricycle in our backyard, wearing nothing but my big girl panties. My hair is in braids with bows in them, and my chubby arm is folded demurely across my chest. And, as I always did, I am smiling for the camera. It was my mother who was the family photographer and I didn’t mind smiling for her at all.

I found lots and lots of other pictures that are special, too. Many of them were taken in the house that I grew up in and still live in. Or rather, I live here again, after a 31-year journey through other homes in Podunk. I moved back in after my daddy died. It is fun to compare “then” and “now” and see how much things have changed.

And how much they have stayed the same.

As I looked at the pictures, I remembered the circumstances, or the event, or pieces of it, and I realized that I need to write those things down for my children. Someday they will be going through the same boxes, maybe still in the same closet, and I won’t be here to tell them the stories. I want them to understand the joy that I felt when I looked through those boxes this afternoon.

Guess I’d better do it soon….

Cleaning House…

Cleaning house used to be a lot simpler. When the kids were little, we didn’t have all that much. Most of our furniture was hand-me-down from other family members. We didn’t have a lot of money and we hadn’t lived long enough to collect a bunch of stuff.

We had a routine with the kids, every night: we picked up all their toys and put them away. We “found the floor” if you will. We didn’t have a fancy toy chest. I got old Baskin-Robbins ice cream “tubs” and decorated them with contact paper in cheerful patterns. We had a place for everything and, before going to bed, everything was in its place.

We had dishes from the grocery store. Buy enough groceries, and the dishes were very cheap. I think I remember that they were kind of an off-gray with brown rims. Not pretty, not what I would have picked out, but inexpensive and utilitarian. Macaroni and cheese looked just fine on them.

And then something funny happened: we started having a little more money. We were able to buy things. More things than we could before. The ice cream tubs were replaced with wicker baskets. I finally got to pick out dishes that I liked. We even bought a new table and chairs for the kitchen.

There were more clothes, more toys, more dishes and more messes. More books, more bikes, more baseballs and bats, and a garage. And boxes stacked in the garage. And a barbeque and all the paraphernalia that goes with cooking outdoors. And a pool for the kids and floats and beach towels and folding lawn chairs and a chain saw and wheelbarrow and hedge clippers and a rototiller that we never used.

And cleaning house got a lot harder. I had less time to do it because I was working so much to pay for the things I tripped over when I was trying to clean house. The kids got too old to put their toys away every night. They had homework and sports and social activities and no time to help Mom clean house.

And now those kids are grown and gone. They have their own homes and their own messes to clean up. I’m thinking it should be easier to clean house now. I started by getting rid of a lot of the things I thought I had to have when I bought them. After hardly using them, or not using them at all, it was high time to get rid of them. For awhile, I was on a first name basis with the guys at Goodwill. That’s really okay with me.

And then the economy tanked. Well, I had already gotten rid of those things I didn’t need and what was left? Just the essentials. Well, and a few toys. But I also have a newfound appreciation for what I have been able to keep and take care of. It makes me feel good to fix something that was broken instead of tossing it in the trash. To take a former treasure, now tarnished or in disrepair, and make it sparkle again.

Somebody might be able to use the things I got rid of, but I can certainly use the things I kept. Everything I own is used almost daily, has a place of its own, and is appreciated for the money I already spent to have it.

It’s a lot easier to clean house now….

Beliefs.....

I was very busy yesterday. After seeing a patient on the north side of Podunk, I had fifteen minutes to make it to the next patient’s home on time, on the south side of Podunk.

Traveling east-west is easier in Podunk; there are more main roads that head east-west. Nevertheless, I know Podunk well and I had chosen the quickest route.

As I drove, I was thinking about everything that I needed to do yesterday and I was a little stressed. As I approached the library, I saw a motorcycle policeman dismount his bike, and park it sideways in the middle of the street I was on. His lights were flashing and he was motioning traffic to stop.

Instinctively, I glanced around, looking for the accident. And there was none. I was the second car in line in my lane and I had a good view of the cop and the street. Then something caught my eye: off to the left, walking slowly down the middle of the street, was a group of men. There must have been a dozen of them, all wearing red tee shirts. And they were carrying a huge, wooden cross. Each of them carrying a part of the weight on their shoulder.

On either side of them were priests, and ministers and other clergymen, all dressed in their religious finery. And behind them? Hundreds of common folks, walking slowly, looking at that wooden cross. There were older people, and teenagers, and families—all holding hands and walking solemnly behind that rugged old cross.

I couldn’t stop looking at them and I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. They were walking the walk, and professing their beliefs. And they are my beliefs, too. And I was moved by the sight.

And then I realized that I was meant to be there and meant to see that procession of believers. It no longer mattered to me that I was going to be late for my next appointment. I was already where I needed to be.

As the procession cleared the intersection, the motorcycle policeman remounted his motorcycle, drove out of the intersection, and motioned traffic to resume. I looked to the right for as long as I could. I didn’t want to stop looking at the believers.

And I only got two blocks before I had to stop again. The red lights were flashing and the train was coming. It lumbered through the intersection, going the same direction as the procession: east to west. It was a Union Pacific train, a short one, and it caught my eye for a completely different reason.

All the cars, from the engine to the last boxcar, had been graffitied. At first, I was disgusted because of the markings and then I saw it: a beautiful graphic of words and a skull and animals. Regardless of the content of the picture, the execution was incredible. Somewhere, there is a graffiti artist who is quite talented.

Imagine what he could do if somebody believed in him.

Today, as I do what I always have to do on the weekends, I cannot stop thinking about those two events. And it made me think about my education. When I was going through the bowels of Hell, otherwise known as Nursing School, there were several people who believed in me. My parents, my husband, my children, and my friend, Sue.

Sue was a neighbor and our kids played together. She would come down the street to check in on me and see how I was doing. I would sit and complain about school, about work, and about being so tired all the time. She would just listen and let me vent. And, when I seemed to have finished venting, she would talk about my graduation party.

I would think about who I wanted to invite, what I would serve, the decorations, the cake and the coffee. I remember telling her that I would have to leave graduation early so I could start the coffee pot. She always offered to do that for me.

In the end, I had stopped complaining, and thought about my party instead. And then Sue would add: “Of course, you have to graduate first. Then you can have your party.” And I would be good for another week of hell.

So here I am, all these years later, being reminded of the importance of beliefs. It is my beliefs that make me who I am and it is the people who believed in me who got me where I am today. And now my patients believe in me.

And I believe life is good. Happy Easter….

Got Cheese?

I went to one of those membership warehouse stores today. I needed groceries.

Every time I go there, I promise myself I won’t go there again. And then, six months later, I have forgotten, so I go again. They are really nice stores if you have, like, twenty children, or you own a restaurant, or you have a cold storage plant or a warehouse of your own. For me, as a single woman, it is an exercise in futility.

Actually, I started out with very good luck: I found a cart that wasn’t dirty and didn’t have square wheels. As I walked in the store, I had a smile on my face. Of course, the store is set up so you have to go past the food court, through the electronics department, past the patio furniture and beyond the pharmacy before you get to the food. I imagine everyone would be hungry by the time they got there.

I was. And then it started. That sinking feeling that always overcomes me when I am in there: do I really need any of this stuff? And more importantly, can I eat all of that before I am tired of it? I mean, how many cans of cut green beans does one need to keep on hand? Or chopped tomatoes? Or mayonnaise in a gallon jar?

I looked at the things I needed, like peanut butter. It comes in a pack, two jars to a pack. And so, I stood there and pondered: will I be able to eat that much peanut butter in my lifetime? And the answer was yes, I will. I am healthy and I plan to live a very long time. That is good because I am set for life, at least as far as peanut butter goes….

I decided to pass on the frozen lasagna. It looked really good but, I would be eating it for like, eleven nights in a row before it was gone……I don’t like it that much. I don’t think it is a bargain if I throw more than half of it away because I couldn’t eat that much, is it?

I did end up buying the package of 30 frozen hamburger patties. I wasn’t going to but, when I figured out that I could repackage them in smaller quantities, I decided that was okay. Have you ever tried to break apart a frozen stack of hamburger patties? It only took about half an hour.

And the cheese. I bought grated cheese and put that into smaller bags, too. About 10 bags, to be exact. That’s a lot of cheese. But it’s okay, I also bought cans of refried beans and enough tortillas to host Cinco de Mayo, so there’ll be a lot of burritos going on at my house. And tostadas, and enchiladas, and tacos, too.

The warehouse stores seem to have everything, which is quite convenient. You can shop while you get tires put on your car. You can order a pizza and pick it up on your way out. You can buy a birthday cake and flowers to go with it and a can of helium and balloons. You can buy a laptop, or an HDTV, or a patio set, or a pool, or a kayak.

One item I didn’t see? An Automated Electronic Defibrillator. They should have an AED at each check out. Paying for a cart-full of groceries at a warehouse store is not for the faint of heart. Of course, when the clerk told me “that will be $211.87” I would probably have been the only one in the store who knew how to use the AED and I was the one who needed it.

Yes, I am now a member of the coveted Two Hundred Dollar Club. And I have the freezer full of cheese and hamburger patties to prove it. Now all I have to do is clean the pantry and try to find room for all the other stuff I bought.

Why don’t you come over for dinner? And bring about 50 of your friends!

Sweet Things…..

It’s funny the things we remember from our childhood. I love words and I always have. I want to know where they came from and who decided that certain sounds and syllables, put together, would mean one thing or another.

My daddy thought I was precocious. When I was only four, I could spell very long words. Well, not really spell them, but repeat patterns of sounds that meant something to the grown-ups. It didn’t take me very long to learn the sequence: Em Eye Ess, Ess Eye Ess, Ess Eye Pee Pee Eye. My parents thought I was clever because I could spell Mississippi. I thought I was clever because I got away with saying “pee pee” at the supper table.

Sequences of sounds, that’s all it was. As he was finishing his supper, Daddy would look at Mommy and spell I – C – E C – R – E – A – M, asking if there was any for dessert. And I would get excited and shout, “We’re having ice cream for dessert!” Sequences of sounds that made a little girl seem very precocious.

I remember other words from my early childhood. My Daddy would tell me that I “belong-along” to him and I would repeat it everywhere. A little girl at preschool took my dolly and I told the teacher that “it belong-alongs to me!” And she thought that was pretty funny. I did get my dolly back, though.

We lived in a town that is even smaller than Podunk, if you can believe that. There was a park in town, and the public swimming pool was in the middle of the park. During the summer, there was a trailer set up near the pool, and it was called “Tops ‘Em All”. The proprietor sold snow cones, ice cream cones, and soda pop.

I couldn’t say “Tops ‘Em All” so I called it “Top A Small.” I heard about that for years. I mean, years. My kids even heard about it. The only reason I let Daddy get away with telling the story was because he was obviously enjoying the memory. My kids liked it, too, the first time or two that they heard it.

My kids had their own words, too. I was cleaning house one day and heard a commotion in the kitchen. My then-toddler daughter was trying to figure out a way to put her tricycle on top of the refrigerator. When her dolls or some other toy broke, we always put it on top of the refrigerator for her daddy to fix.

Well, it made sense to her to put her tricycle up there when the pedal fell off. She couldn’t say “fix it” and it came out “fick its”. So, we put the tricycle in the living room where her daddy would see it and he could “fick its.”

My youngest child cornered the market on mispronouncing words. I have never figured out if he was seriously mispronouncing them or just playing with us. Doesn’t matter, it was still cute. He had lots of his own words: on his feet, he wore “ooshes and ocks”….and he liked to eat “rickly ish” and read “mazagines.”

One, day, he came in from playing outside and I had just cleaned and rearranged the living room. So, my cute little man looks up at me and smiles and tells me: “I like how you desecrate, Mommy!” He also liked to go on vacation and go to “Disleyland.”

We all grow up and things change. I can spell lots of words besides Mississippi and ice cream. I know who I belong-along to and I have never forgotten Top A Small. And somewhere in Italy, at this very moment, is a

handsome man, father of three boys, who probably still remembers putting on his own ooshes and ocks when he was a little boy.

Life is full of sweet things……

Grandma Shoes…..

Things were different when I was a child. Duh! No really, things were different. I remember thinking that my grandmothers were very old. They weren’t called “Grandma”, they were both known as “Nana”. And they were as different as night and day.

My paternal “Nana” was always cheerful and always handing out sugar cookies. She made sugar cookies that were as thin as a piece of paper. And they were delicious. She wore flower-print dresses, an apron, and sensible shoes.

She lived in the Bay Area. When we went to visit her, we always went to Treasure Island, and had dinner at the Officers’ Club. And, of course, we went in to “The City” and shopped for Daddy’s suits for work. And she wore a beautiful brooch on her dress. And sensible shoes.

My other Nana was the only person I was afraid of as a child. She was a German war bride. She met my grandfather when he was a surgeon in the Army in Europe during World War I. She drove a Red Cross ambulance. After the war, they settled in St. Louis, MO. By the time I met her, she was living in Westwood Village, near UCLA.

I remember her apartment. It was quite elegant. Furnished with expensive furniture with a French flair. Velvet drapes, tapestry upholstery, gracefully curved legs on the chairs and mostly “don’t touch!” The living room was dominated by a leaded glass window that looked out on the rose garden and the street below.

And in this elegant room, full of “don’t touch” things, I would sit on the floor and watch television with my Nana. What a contrast: such elegant, rich furnishings and on the TV? “Roller Derby”…..her favorite program. She always sat in a big wingback chair that my daddy called her “throne.” And when I visited, I would pull up a dainty stool next to her, and we would eat our meals on the card table that was always set up in front of her throne.

And watch Roller Derby.

My maternal Nana favored solid color dresses, in elegant fabrics, and lots of jewelry: brooches, necklaces, bangle bracelets and rings. When she took me places, she wore her mink stole. We used to cruise around Los Angeles in her 1955 Mercury convertible. It was yellow with a white rag top. We always wore scarves on our heads and drove around with the top down. And she wore sensible shoes.

Scarf in her hair, mink stole, beautiful dress, lots of jewelry, and sensible shoes.

As I said, things have changed a lot since I was a child. I do have a mink stole: the very same one she wore. And most of her costume jewelry. And a love for convertibles. I even have some sensible shoes that I wear to work.

And that is where the similarity ends. I am not Nana, I am Grandma. I do wear dresses, probably more than the kids’ other grandmas, but not all that often. I wear jeans and hoodies and cowboy boots. Tee shirts, crop pants, and pink Converse One Stars, and, of course, the California State Shoe: flip flops.

I don’t sit in my wing chair and watch Roller Derby, either. I like to play football with my sons and the grandkids: as I have mentioned before, nobody would dare tackle Grandma! I like to hike and camp and ride bikes and walk for miles and hours on the beach. I listen to my music too loud and, if someone complains, I switch to my iPod. My hot pink, iPod Nano….

I know that my Nanas were not as old as I thought they were then, and that I am not as young as I think I am now, but, I still think I am different from them. They had a vision of what was expected from them and they fulfilled it. I have a picture of my paternal Nana taken when she was about my age. I hope I don’t look that old for at least another twenty years!

By then, I will be retired. I won’t have to work anymore and, more importantly: I won’t have to wear sensible shoes..