Stepping Stones...

Stepping Stones…

It’s funny how things happen.

I have been looking, for a couple of months, for something my older brother wrote. Half-hearted attempts yielded nothing. And today, for no apparent reason, I thought of another place to search. In less than a minute, the object of my search was in my hands.

Bound in a plastic spiral, with a clear plastic cover, it is the self-published history of my family, as collected and annotated by my elder brother. It was written and presented to me and to my “baby brother” fifteen and a half years ago.

And today, I finally read it.

He and I are not close. In fact, I haven’t seen him since we scattered my daddy’s ashes in the Pacific Ocean a dozen years ago. I last talked to him about four years ago when I needed instruction on how to repair the plaster in my living room. When I called him, he didn’t recognize my voice.

The “voice” I read today was not the bully who spent hours each day antagonizing his little sister. I was expecting something very scholarly and dry. What I found was a man who is my brother and has written an accurate and folksy accounting of where we came from, revealing, perhaps, more of himself than of any other.

The story covers an incredible eleven hundred years of family history. And names, lots of names, such as Thomas, Silas, Keziah, Phoebe and George Mortimer. And lots of places from Denmark to England to New Hampshire, Connecticut and New York. And lots of wars, including the Crusades and both sides of the Civil War.

He goes on to share letters that have been saved, from one member of the family to another. Pleasant letters designed to keep families in contact with each other. And hand-written lists of who was related to whom.

And in a gesture that was unlike the older brother I remembered, he included a very thoughtful poem, which I will share with you:

"Isn’t it strange how princes and kings

And clowns that sport in sawdust rings

And common folks like you and me

Are builders to eternity.

To each is given a book of rules

A block of stone and a bag of tools

And each must build ‘ere life be flown

A stumbling block or a stepping stone."

(Anonymous, English)

I think it’s time to call him again…..

Larger Than Life..

I’ve written about him many times before. He was the most influential man in my young life. He taught me the meaning of unconditional love. He taught me right from wrong. He taught me to laugh. And he comforted me when I cried.

He was a Marine. For the first five or so years of my life, I thought I was a Marine, too. When we were out somewhere, in a crowd, if I looked up and saw that he had his fist in the air, making a circular motion, it meant come quickly. Often, when he and I went somewhere, he let me call cadence…

Ah One Hup Louie, Hup Louie Riley Oh Lee Oh, Riley Oh..

Or something like that. It was fun and I was only four. My little friends could sing the alphabet song, I sang the Marine Corps Hymn. I knew the alphabet, but I preferred to wail out “From the halls of Montezuma….”

He taught me to tie my shoes. He let me sit on the counter in the bathroom and watch him while he shaved. I was always fascinated by the “jingle” of his pockets, so one day, I “borrowed” nails from his tool box so my overall pockets would jingle, too.

When I was little, he was larger than life. He was the smartest man in the whole wide world and the kindest, too. He could perform magic, and I’ve written about that, too.

Somehow, when I was a teenager, he managed to retain his intelligence. In fact, he passed some of his wisdom on to me. I wrote many papers about subjects that we discussed at the supper table.

But right now, I am thinking about the end. He had been on a ventilator for more than two weeks and was being hemodialyzed, too. I tried to be just his daughter but, somehow, I ended up being his primary nurse, too.

On that last day, as I looked at him, I only saw a shadow of the man who was larger than life to me for so many years. Frail, pale, unresponsive, unable to breathe on his own, he was slipping away from me.

Selfishly, I wanted to beg him to stay with me a little longer. Instinctively, I knew he was already gone. I bent over his bed, kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear:

You can go now, I will be okay. I love you, Daddy.

Poor Food....

I went to the grocery store yesterday. I was hungry when I got there and I bought a lot more stuff than I usually do. I bought cherries and apricots and melons and artichokes and tomatoes. And a cake mix to make a pound cake. I bought some of those French fries that can be baked in the oven, and bacon and lettuce to make a BLT.

It was as if I went back in time, to the early years, the “Young Mommy” years, to be exact. I bought things yesterday that I bought way back then. Tonight, for supper, I will be having fried eggplant, sliced tomato, cottage cheese and an artichoke.

I call it “poor food.”

Back then, when I had babies at home, I didn’t work. We made do on one paycheck. My father-in-law was a rancher and always grew vegetables in the summer. We seemed to have an endless supply of beefsteak tomatoes, squash, eggplant, and watermelon. And he grew oranges, so there were always plenty of them, too.

I know we had hard financial times when I was a child. Not always, but often enough that I remember them. And there were those times again when I was a young mommy. But the amazing thing is, we always had enough to eat. We ate “poor food” but we ate well.

I guess it is no wonder then that I equate having enough to eat with being financially sound. I was in charge of paying the bills when the kids were babies and I always paid them. And THEN I went shopping for groceries. I always figured anything would fill my family’s bellies and, if the bills were paid, anything we could afford would taste just fine.

I remember being able to buy five pot pies for a dollar, when they were on sale. I used to joke with the kids: “there’s a prize for anybody who finds chicken in their chicken pot pie!” To make them go farther, I boiled new potatoes and served the pot pie on top of a large portion of potatoes.

When I made mashed potatoes, if there were leftovers, we had potato pancakes the next night. Leftover anything became something else the next night. Funny thing, the conversation at the supper table was just as lively on leftover night as it was any other night.

I remember fixing bacon and eggs and biscuits for supper many times. And, if there wasn’t much bacon, I just made more biscuits. We always got full. The kids always enjoyed the simple foods better than the “exotic” things that we ate infrequently, such as asparagus (asper-grass at our house).

One of their favorite meals was beans and weenies. It started out as an attempt to feed my family without going to the store. I had five mouths to feed and only four weenies, so I cut them up in small, round slices and fried then in a pot with butter. When they were slightly browned, I added a couple of cans of pork and beans, a touch of mustard, some brown sugar, a little Worcestershire sauce, and a drop of liquid hickory smoke. I let them simmer while I made corn muffins….

Voila! A new family favorite!

The kids, my husband, and I gathered around a simple table: placemats, napkins, milk glasses, and simple food. The milk carton always sat in the middle of the table where everybody could reach it. We drank lots of milk and we also spilled our fair share. Well, some was snorted out little kids’ noses, too. They couldn’t help it: things were just too funny!

Poor food made for rich memories….

Sign Language

It’s been a tough couple of weeks at work. Lots of sick patients, day after day. As I sat at my desk, yesterday morning, I was reading a patient’s History and Physical, preparing to go see him and admit him to home health services.

After more than three decades as a registered nurse, I’d like to think that there just isn’t much that I haven’t seen or done, as far as patient care goes. Yet, as I read this young man’s history, I was shaking my head. Multiple surgeries, a cancerous tumor, brain surgery, epileptic seizures, a ventral-peritoneal shunt, countless medications, and around-the-clock care.

I telephoned his mother to schedule my visit. She sounded quite pleasant on the phone, and maybe, just a little bit hyper. And very talkative. Well, that’s understandable: her life is devoted to taking care of her severely handicapped and ill son. She probably doesn’t get out much.

Without realizing it, I had formulated a vision of this young man: bedridden, emaciated, unable to speak, and of course, looking quite ill. I was impressed that his mom was able to be so cheerful and I hoped I could be the same.

I left the office armed with his life history, some supplies, and fully prepared for a heart-wrenchingly somber visit.

I turned off the main road on to a side street.

One…..two…..three…..four…..five…there it is: the fifth house on the right. Kind of a nice little wood-framed house with a flowerbox under the front window. From the street, the house did not belie the tragedy occurring within.

Or so I thought.

As frequently happens, my knock on the door caused the dog inside to start barking. I heard someone approaching the front door and I braced myself for what I might be getting into….

A delightful woman who didn’t look old enough to have a son in his twenties opened the door. She greeted me warmly and invited me in. And then I saw it: a whirling dervish, moving so fast I couldn’t focus on it to figure out what it was. Mom directed me toward a couch and invited me to sit down. There it was again! Only this time, the dervish stopped, mid-twirl, and smiled at me.

Over five tall, a little chubby, with a scraggly beard, he stared at me for a moment before his whole face broke into a smile. “Hi nurse!” He said quite loudly. And that was not enough. I waved at him and he waved back. And that was not enough. He walked over to me and shook my hand. And that was not enough. He gave me a bear hug. And that was not enough. He planted a kiss on my cheek…

As I sat on the couch with his mom, completing the paperwork that is part and parcel of the admission process, he sat across from us, watching everything we did. Since he is profoundly deaf, I did not try to talk to him. I would look up every couple of minutes and wave to him, just to let him know that I knew he was there. And every wave from me elicited an angelic smile from him.

Mom would ask him questions occasionally, using sign language. He would answer the questions by signing. He “said” he was not having pain. He said he likes nurses and doctors because “they saved my life.” And again, he flashed that smile.

When it was time for me to do a physical examination and assessment, he was very cooperative. Helpful, in fact. Despite having had more than three dozen surgeries in his life, and multiple life-threatening physical problems, he is open and innocent and loving. He smiles easily, and is very affectionate. As I was instructing his mom in colostomy care, he reached up and took my hand and held it for more than a minute. He just wanted to connect with “the nurse” and he did, more than he knows.

Hopefully, the techniques I taught his mom yesterday will eliminate problems with the colostomy functioning. Hopefully, the interaction with “the nurse” will put both mother and son at ease, knowing that they have someone they can call who will help them with his physical needs.

Hopefully, I was able to give them as much as they gave me. I now know how to say “I love you” “thank you” and “you’re welcome” in sign language.

And I get paid to do this….

That Friday Night

As remembered on September 25th 1964

One weekend last April, I attended a convention for our Church Youth Group at a camp in the hills above Bass Lake. Long after I have forgotten the events of the convention, I will still remember that Friday night.

The bus lumbered along the camp access road, stopping now and then to let a logging truck pass. It finally passed altogether when further passage on the road became impossible. The last of the winter snow had melted and left its moisture in the road. I saw a sign and knew why we could not go on: “Chains Required.”

I filed silently out of the bus along with my friends. I was glad to get out of the bus: the air outside was exhilarating. As I stood next to the bus, I thought to myself that it was too bad that no one had remembered to bring tire chains. I wondered how we were expected to get to the camp, which was still five miles farther up the access road.

As I walked along, I tried to calculate how far I had walked already and how much of the five miles was still ahead of me. “Chains Required”….A bus with sturdy tires could not travel along that road, yet I was walking along it, every step making my feet colder and muddier.

It was like a dream. I was walking along an unknown road, with stately fir trees and an icy moon watching my every step. I was a stranger in an unknown land, ignorant of what was beyond each tree and around each turn in the road.

I was afraid I would become lost and never find the camp; afraid I would freeze in my cotton school dress….afraid a bear would suddenly appear from behind a tree.

Yet, I was enchanted by the beauty of nature. Never before had I been in such a situation; never before had nature seemed so lovely to me. The moon was full and cast its cold glow on the tall, silent fir trees and made them look like trees I had only seen in eerie dreams. The moonlight danced upon the water that hurried down the hillside and illuminated the icy fingers that hung from branches overhead.

As I walked farther, I began to enjoy my surroundings more and more. My excitement enveloped my fears. The trees along the road no longer closed in around me but cleared a path through the woods for me. The moon was not so cold and impartial—it picked out its friends among the trees and introduced them to me.

I walked up to the fireplace to warm my hands and I wondered if I had really walked to the camp. Or did I just have a dream? And then I looked down at my muddy, cracked patent leather shoes.

Golden Moments….

I went outside this morning to enjoy the sunshine and started feeling guilty. I have a lot of things that need to be done but, I wanted to be outside in the warmth of the sun.

I assuaged my guilt by cutting the dead blooms off the rose tree. Just two weeks ago, the tree was a profusion of tiny rose blooms and buds. Pink, of course. By cutting back the dead blooms, “deadheading” the rose tree, I will have more blooms before I know it. Cutting away the old to make room for the new…..Hmmmm.

The more I worked, the more I saw what needed to be done. More chores on top of the chores already waiting for my attention. The “pile” of things to do was growing as fast as the pile of dead blooms.

And then I became aware of the sun on my back, baking the shirt I am wearing. It felt good. It felt soothing. “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy….” (John Denver). As if by magic, my vision was restored: I no longer saw the weeds and the areas where the grass has died, or the dead blooms on all the other plants.

I saw only green. And pink on the roses and red on the geraniums and yellow on the Dusty Miller and the sunflowers. I saw my dogs, romping and smiling and showing off for me. I saw the verdant patches of blooming shrubs and trees instead of the bare spots that are waiting for attention.

I heard children laughing and playing at the nearby elementary school, and birds singing. Or were they admonishing me to leave “their” yard alone? I heard my dog breathing hard as she ran around the yard and beckoned her to come sit in my lap and catch her breath.

And then there were two: both dogs in my lap, vying for my attention. And I became aware, as they already were, that this is the most important day and hour and minute and moment of my life…..just because it is.

So, the weeds can wait, the bills can wait, the grocery store can wait:

I’m out in the sunshine, playing with my dogs….

Come back, Karl

Come back, Karl, please! I'm begging!

I wanted to call Karl the other day, just to let him know that I am still mad at him for leaving me! I couldn’t find his number…….

We were together for 12 of the best years of my life! I could always count on him. The sweet things he did for me were endearing. He was kind, thoughtful, trustworthy, and always, always there for me. He would do anything I asked him to, and cheerfully, at that! Nothing was impossible to him, and many things I asked him to do were, frankly, impossible. He always let me down gently, though, except that last time. It was over three years ago and I still remember it as if it happened yesterday.

I have agonized over the breakup for three long years! Three years wasted on a relationship that obviously was not meant to last. Some might call him a “typical man” but, I still find myself defending him. Why? He left me, didn’t he? He was more concerned about his own future than mine, or “ours”! What could possibly be more important than an ongoing relationship with me? I remember his answer: something that sounded too lame to be true: A job with health insurance? A retirement plan? Please! It’s not as if I hadn’t been there for him for all those years, paying him promptly on the 4th Friday of the month. With bonuses at Christmas and his birthday! Geez, what more could a gardener want from me?

I first met Karl as I was preparing to move back into my family home. My father died the previous spring and, although September was here, summer simply refused to leave. The lawn, the trees and shrubs, and the flowerbeds were beautifully tended. Impulsively, I asked the gardener—he wasn’t Karl to me, yet—if he would continue to work for me. I was simply overjoyed when he said yes! We discussed payment and I promptly wrote him a check to cover the first month. Impulsive, yes; stupid, no. I was looking at the fruit of his labors; he took care of the yard for my parents for 5 years before I came back to live. So, his work, and work ethic, were quite evident. 

I was married at the time and, when I told #2 that I had hired Karl to continue tending to the yard, #2 went ballistic! He had NEVER had someone mow his lawn for him and he WASN’T going to start now! I thought back on all the lawn mowing days of our marriage: 8 daylight hours spent complaining about having to mow the lawn, followed by 2 night hours spent setting up yard lights, mowing the lawn, and cursing the dark! I was resolved: I had NEVER had someone mow my lawn before and NOW was as good a time as any to start! Within a month, #2 had grown very fond of the 10 hours he gained weekly; remember, 8 complaining, 2 mowing; that’s 10 hours.

For the first 3 years, Karl just mowed and edged the lawn, kept the flowerbeds neat and clean, and raked leaves in the fall. I had 3 huge modesto ash trees out front and the leaves were overwhelming. One day, I came home from work to find Karl still raking leaves. He asked, only half-kidding, if I would be so kind as to have the trees removed. I went in the house, retrieved a snapshot, and took it out to show him: my brothers and I, standing in front of a stick that would one day be the bone of Karl’s contention. He muttered something about “no fair” and went back to raking leaves.

After #2 left, Karl waited almost 3 months to ask me what happened. We were in the front yard discussing “winter maintenance” whatever that is. Karl asked, out of the blue, about my missing husband. I told him that #2 wasn’t really missing, I knew exactly where he was but, I was just as happy to have him stay there. Karl looked at my grin and thought better about offering me condolences. Instead, he said: “you take care of the house, and I’ll take care of the yard.” Deal!

And take care he did! He fixed things that were broken, put the trash cans out for me, then came by later to put them away, kept the rain gutters cleaned out, and even went with me when my Rottweiler needed to go to the vet. She weighed 105 lbs, so the help was welcome. Karl loved that dog nearly as much as I did. 

Now someone out there may be thinking, Hmm…what else did he “fix”? I can tell you that Karl is happily married to a lovely woman named Sandy. I was GLAD to be single at the time. And anything other than a business relationship was unconscionable to either of us (oh my, BIG word, Cali. Good Girl!). Think what you want, Karl is a gentleman, and a gentle man. 

So, is it Karl’s fault that my lawns have brown spots? Is he to be blamed for the sprinkler that thinks it’s a geyser? Of course not, you say. Hell yes! I say. If he hadn’t been such a wonderful “employee” and friend, I would not have such high expectations today!

Come back, Karl! I miss you!

Eddie and the Cruisers, Part Deux

Edward rolled his eyes as he looked at the number on his caller ID. “Geez, Paul, now what loser have you got for me?” Paul laughed and started right in on the specs: fifty-nine, divorced, two grown kids, dental hygienist, lives right here in town, and her name is Sharon……..Edward didn’t even hesitate: “I told you, Paul, don’t set me up with a woman! I’ll find my own.” 

Paul reminded him that he’s been saying that for a couple of years now. Although Lindy died almost four years ago, Edward thought he needed more time. Lindy was his beloved friend; she had turned his life around and made him happier than he thought was possible. When she died, part of him died, too.

They hadn’t married. Edward still cursed the day he broke up with her. He was scared, and rightfully so. His wife had taken him to the cleaners when they divorced. It took him nearly five years to rebuild his life and feel good about himself again. Lindy came along and turned him on his ear. He felt like a teenager again. He laughed as he thought about her nickname for him: Eddie, as in Eddie and the Cruisers. Right now, he would give anything to hear her sweet voice again.

“Paul, you’re not listening! I’m not interested, okay?” Paul sounded disgusted but, said “okay” and hung up. “I hope he gives up on me,” Edward thought to himself.

The phone rang again. Edward looked at the caller ID to make sure it was Paul; it wasn’t. “Hello?” came from his throat without any coaxing. “Hi, Eddie, this is Sharon.” Edward cringed when she called him Eddie but, he decided to let it go. Her voice sounded interesting, sexy even. “Hope you don’t mind that I called you Eddie; I loved Eddie and the Cruisers, it was such a great movie!”

Eddie, uh Edward felt his heart skip a beat. “Did she just say what I thought she said?” He dismissed the thought and inquired why she was calling him. “Well” she started, “this is kind of embarrassing. I am being honored by a group of friends, and everybody else has a date.” Oh, no, Edward thought, here we go.

Edward thought back to the last date Paul arranged for him. The woman was “high class” and Paul told him to wear a suit, or slacks and a sports coat. Edward could still remember how the coat collar chafed his neck. He didn’t want to go through that again. Jeans, and a tee-shirt for casual, cowboy garb (shirt, Wranglers, boots) was as dress-up as he liked to get.

“So, when is this shindig?” Edward asked. “Next Saturday night” she replied. Edward couldn’t get over how much he enjoyed the sound of her voice. “And where are you going?” he asked. “We have reservations at “Big Bubba’s BBQ” was her answer. “I hope you don’t mind, I love country music and they have a dance band on Saturday nights.” Edward could not believe what he heard. He loved country music, and he loved to dance!

He realized that he was hesitating and Sharon was waiting for his answer: “Can I call you back in a few minutes, Sharon?” “Sure” was her reply. He hung up the phone and walked into his bedroom.

Opening the closet doors, he looked way in the back, behind his sports coats. Ahh, there it is! Edward pulled out his favorite cowboy shirt and examined it. “Looks perfect” he smiled. He found his cowboy boots and dusted them off. He tried them on and they still fit fine; he knew he could two-step all night in them.

Walking back out to the phone, he could feel his heart pounding. Usually a man who made important decisions after long deliberation, he picked up the phone and dialed Sharon’s number. “Sharon, this is Eddie. I’ve thought about it, and I think we should get acquainted before going to your shindig. What are you doing tonight?”

Again I say:

If you get a chance---take it!

If it changes your life---let it!

Home...

I went home today. Not to a place on earth. To a place in time.

I already live in the home I grew up in and I have for a dozen years. The familiarity of this place has made it a perfect shelter for me in my post-marriage years. I live alone but I am not alone: those memories are here and they comfort me.

I have been on vacation this week. I went out in the backyard this morning to survey the damage from the storm we had last night. That storm was quite scary: the wind howled and the rain came down sideways. Lightning lit up the sky and the yard. The dogs were quite frightened.

So this morning, I was outside in my yard, with my cup of coffee, surveying my surroundings and watching the dogs play. For the first time this week, I was not struck with the urge to “do something” in the yard. I was happy to just be.

I did take the garbage can out in the alley; it’s trash day. While I was out there, I spoke to Kay, the lady who lives directly behind me. She has been my neighbor since I was five years old. And she is a nurse, too.

We talked about the tin roof on her shed: it is curled up precariously on top of the shed right now. She will call her grandsons to come fix it. And she asked if I have seen her kittens; they seem to be missing. Unfortunately, I have not seen them but, armed with a description of them, I promised to be on the lookout for them.

As I wandered back in the house, I realized that I was hungry. On a whim, I decided to fix bacon and eggs and waffles. I made orange juice in the pretty pitcher with the rooster on it. I served the juice in a real juice glass with cherries painted on it. 

As I sat at the dining room table and ate my meal, I looked through the bay window at the backyard. In a flight of fancy—in my mind—I could hear my children, when they were young, and see them in the yard, playing with my dogs. And I saw myself as a very little girl, playing with them. It was a lovely sight: my dogs from now, my children from back then, and me, from way back then. And I smiled.

I do miss those days. I miss being a young mommy and having sweet little babies to care for. I miss my parents more than words can express. But there is something more basic, and perhaps even more valuable, that I miss also:

The simplicity of being at Home….