All In a Day's Work....

Yesterday was my last day of work. For now. I'm off on two and a half weeks' vacation. Today, I'm getting ready to leave on my next great adventure, doing all those things to set the house in order for my absence. Not really: getting it clean for the house sitter.

As I sat in the home health agency office yesterday afternoon, finishing up an audit, I was listening to what was happening around me. Disengaging, if you will. It was quite a revelation, to me.

Our rep was there, from the wound vac company. We have a new nurse and he was learning the idiosyncrasies of the wound vac. Since they were sitting at the desk right next to me, I got to be part of the repartee, too. It was fun.

My own chore was repetitious: gathering information from our computer program to use in reporting any trends in rehospitalization of our patients. Our goal is to keep our patients out of the hospital. Even though I was looking for facts, I had plenty of time to listen to what was going on around me.

A nurse sitting near me was on the phone. Call after call, making things happen. She spoke to her patient's wife, to the hospice liaison nurse, to the patient's physician, and then to the director of a step down unit. Life is not going well for the patient, and our nurse was intervening to assist with important decisions. Difficult decisions.

As she worked on this, her cell phone rang: her teenage son had issues he wanted to discuss with her, right then and there. Typical of a teenager, what he was concerned about was far more important than anything his mother might be doing at work.

Another nurse, another phone call. The afternoon was rife with patients who had needs and nurses who were trying to get orders to address those needs. Some successfully, some not. It's like that: some physicians will work with us to help their patients, others can't be bothered to speak to a home health nurse.

What could we possibly be doing that's so important? An ICU nurse? Well, that's a different story. That's Life and Death. But then, as I was listening yesterday, so is what we do more frequently than I care to think.

I was very tired; yesterday was my Friday. It was a long week, as I was Lead Nurse for four of the five days I worked. It wasn't that bad, really. I have spent most of my career making difficult decisions, and taking the flak for them. Sometimes, I think I have seen it all and done it all. I haven't, of course, but it feels like it.

As the afternoon drew to a close, I cleared off my desk and put things away. I left my laptop at work: it has to be communicated at least every 14 days and I will be gone longer than that. How cool is that? I smiled to myself as I thought about where I am going, and what I am going to see, in the next two-plus weeks.

I remembered that I had a therapy session at four and I hurried to get out the door. “Goodbye, have fun! Keep us posted on Facebook!” from my co-workers and boss, and I was out the door. They are a good group of people, hardworking, kind and caring. They are good at what they do and they will do fine while I am gone.....

It's all in a day's work.

Resiliency....

I like that word. I like the idea of being resilient, of being able to recover from life's disappointments and move on.

Not impervious, resilient. I feel the pain; my psyche is punctured. But it is not fatal. I recover. Wounds heal.

I am resilient.

I never, in a million years, would have thought my career would end before I was ready to end it. And I truly don't know if that is the case. As the old cliché promises: only time will tell. Time and patience.

Currently, I am working but I am not seeing patients. The bending, lifting, reaching and twisting wreaks havoc on my back. I cannot see them in person, but we can talk on the phone. And that is just what I have been doing this weekend, in the office. Reassurance, emotional support, instructions about medications, etc. I can do those things. I can help a little, if not a lot.

And I can go on. Life still happens, even if I am not at 100%.

So, I will leave in a few days, on a long-planned trip. With a few modifications, the trip is still a “go.” For 19 days, I will suspend my concerns about my career options. I will take off for parts unknown, see some of the beautiful places in this great country of ours, and learn some history.

From the high desert, to the Badlands, across the prairie and beyond, I will revel in the changing seasons across the land. From football games, geysers, and majestic mountains, to the Land of Lincoln, I will see, and learn, and enjoy.

I will be resilient.

Abraham Lincoln.....Sort of..

I've been cleaning again.... I found this paper I wrote in high school. It's a book report on “Abraham Lincoln—The Prairie Years":

Carl Sandburg is classified by the Encyclopedia Britannica as an author, but he is much more than this—he is a biographer. He takes the dry, washed-out description of a man and performs magic. He throws out the detail by detail method and weaves a magical web into his story until it is no longer a story that can be found in any history book, but rather, it is a story with life, with charm and wit, woven into its very thread.

Abraham Lincoln has become a symbol to Americans. We look to his memory with respect and honor and deep admiration for what he did for our country and our heritage. But what did he do? What did he really think about slavery, about a house divided against itself, about everything? In his book Carl Sandburg answers the questions we ought to be asking about Lincoln. Mr. Sandburg delves into Lincoln's life without getting too involved or too personal. He has respect for Lincoln's memory and an awareness of his duty as a biographer.

Abraham Lincoln was not the man so often portrayed in his biographies. He was not a handsome man; he was tall and lean and his face was almost ugly. He was not a great orator; he did not have the powers of speech that Douglas had, but rather, he spoke to his audience in his own simple manner. He showed his own true emotions when he spoke and held his audience spellbound.

Abraham Lincoln was a lonely man; he could only tell his inner thoughts to one man: Joshua Speed. He could not even confide in his wife for she did not have the patience and understanding that he needed. He was a confused man: he once wrote to his friend, Joshua Speed, “I think I am a Whig; but others say there are no Whigs, and that I am an Abolitionist. I now do no more than oppose the extension of slavery.” He was only a man; people expected him to rid the country of slavery and do it in such a way that everyone, whites and Negroes alike, would receive a fair deal. He could only see evil manifested in slavery, and fight it—he could not correct it. He was only human.

Sandburg does not mess up his book with twenty-five and fifty cent adjectives, wordy phrases, or dripping, gushing, worthless passages. He uses his own appealing, sincere style. He has a story to tell and he does so without neglecting detail and without getting carried away. And that is hard to do! I particularly enjoyed Sandburg's description of the marriage of Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln. He says “Both gossip and science have little to guide them in effecting a true and searching explanation of the married life of a slow-going wilderness bear and a cultivated tempestuous wildcat.”

Another example of his fine writing style is the following description of Lincoln, “So tall, with so peculiar a slouch and so easy a saunter, so bony and sad, so quizzical and comic, sort of hiding a funny lantern that lighted and went out and that he lighted again—he was the Strange Friend and the Friendly Stranger.” And then again, “Like something out of a picture book for children—he was. His form of slumping arches and his face of gaunt sockets were a shape a Great Artist had scrawled from careless clay, and was going to throw away, and then had said: 'no, this one is to be kept; for a long time this one is to be kept; I made it by accident but it is better than any made on purpose' “.

Sandburg uses many illustrations in his book, pictures of Lincoln, of his family, his friends, his enemies. The pictures fit in perfectly with the story, for they portray people as they really were and not as they might have looked in “doctored” pictures. The pictures show Lincoln's moody eyes and his otherwise expressionless face. He is an awesome, serious man whose countenance displays no trace of a sense of humor. He must have hated to have his picture taken.

Carl Sandburg certainly has a great store of knowledge to draw his material from. So many books have been written about Lincoln and so many stories have been told about him that Mr. Sandburg merely has to choose the details he wishes to include in his book. The following is one of my favorite stories about Lincoln. Once he was on his way to some big social event that required very formal dress. Lincoln had on his very best suit, hat, and gloves. He drove his buggy along a country road that was still wet from a recent rain. He came upon a pig that was stuck in a rather big mud puddle. Lincoln stopped his buggy and got out to see what he could do. He talked reassuringly to the pig and waded into the mud to help him out. He arrived at the event late—and muddy. This story may not be true but it is typical of the folklore surrounding Lincoln.

Carl Sandburg's biographies of Lincoln have been an important contribution to American literature. Mr. Sandburg is considered the foremost Lincoln authority and it is not hard to see why. The reader gains an insight into the life of one of America's most influential presidents, and a great humanitarian. Sandburg has also set a standard for other authors who wish to distinguish themselves as biographers: all they need is the magic spark that Mr. Sandburg has. It is no wonder Carl Sandburg won the Pulitzer Prize for his “Abraham Lincoln—the War Years”. I plan to read it!

And so it was: a teenage girl wrote a book report about a book she had not read. I can say that now since both my teacher, and Carl Sandburg, are gone. I asked my father, at the supper table, to tell me about Abraham Lincoln. After doing the supper dishes, I went in my room and wrote this paper. BTW, I got an A+ on it....

Oh, and a very dear friend of mine gave me a copy of “Abraham Lincoln—The Prairie Years” earlier this year and yes, I think it's about time I read it!

Saying Goodbye to Friends....

I have been busy purging again. Saying goodbye to more of my books. I haven't counted how many books I have, but I did give away nearly 200 more, and the wall of bookcases still looks full.

That's a lot of books.

A lot of the books I donated were “shelter books” and full of pictures of wonderful homes and lives. I purchased most of them when I was in the antiques and collectibles business. Books full of lovely rooms and lovely ideas for decorating.

I always decorated my antiques' booth. I made vignettes with the things I had for sale so potential customers could see how things might look in their own home. It was actually quite a successful marketing ploy: customers bought the piece of furniture, and the tabletop vignette, too.

So why was I not more successful in my business? Two real reasons: I did it for fun, and I am a softie. If someone admired something I had refurbished and decorated, but couldn't afford it, I would usually lower the price. Not always, but when the customer really seemed smitten by something I certainly would.

I'm a people person, not a businesswoman, I guess....

I closed my business five years ago but the books have lingered. Like friends, they have weathered the good times and the bad times, silently sitting on the shelf, waiting for an opportunity to comfort, or entertain me.

Dusting my books has always been an all day chore. Yes, I have a lot of books, but that's not why. I lose myself, literally, in touching each book to dust it. I have to open each book and read and reread my favorite passages, or look fondly at the items displayed in the pictures.

And so, parting with books has been like parting with friends. It is not something to be taken lightly, or done without thinking about it. When did I get the book? What was going on in my life when I got it? Did the book offer some measure of comfort at that time? Or was it a means of escape from the real world?

I gave a lot of my childrens' books to Noelle. She is too old to read them, perhaps, but that's not why she wanted them. She likes to “play school” and she needed props. Now she has them. And I have a promise from her: she will not give them away without thought. She will find homes for them where they will be appreciated.

Some of the Golden Books I gave her have my name written in them, in my own childish handwriting. Others have her mother's name, or her uncles' names. They are pieces of the past as much as they are books. She understands that and will protect them. That's why I gave them to her.

As I looked through my “library,” finding candidates to send to Goodwill, I became aware that I have detached from some of the books. They were important, and very useful, in another phase of my life. They provided information that I needed at that time. Information that I don't need now.

So, just as books can be friends, some are only acquaintances. They were in my life for a purpose and that purpose is no longer. So now, they need to move on to new homes and new readers.

Somebody, somewhere, who needs a friend....

We the People....

I had jury duty today. I know it's my civic duty, but I never like going....

There's something about sitting in the jury assembly room, thinking about what other things I need to be doing, that really gets to me. I have been called many, many times, but I only served once. Sort of.

It was when I was in nursing school and it took an act of Congress to be allowed to fulfill my duty to my country. And then, to make matters worse, I was selected for the jury. It was a drunk driving trial. No one was injured, thankfully, just a guy arrested for driving drunk. A guy who insisted on his right to a trial by jury.

After sitting through the testimony about what constitutes driving drunk, we then got to hear from the arresting officer. Well, not exactly. The arresting officer pulled the guy over, then radioed for someone else to take over: his shift had ended and he was headed to Mexico to go deep sea fishing.

So, the officer on the stand was the one who took over. And the defendant's lawyer asked to approach the bench. How could the court accept the testimony of an officer of the law who did not actually see the defendant driving his car while intoxicated? Point taken. End of trial.

But not today. I spent three hours in the jury assembly room. I never got sent to an actual courtroom, or interviewed to serve on a jury. Not surprising, considering that the assembly room had an overflow crowd.

I couldn't find a place to park when I got to the courthouse, as the jury parking lot was full. There was a line clear out the front steps of the courthouse, of people waiting to go through the metal detector. Every chair was taken, in the assembly room, and there must have been fifty of us left standing.

After the first group was called, to go to Courtroom 6, there was room to sit down. When the court clerk gave us a break, several of us stayed right where we were: we weren't going to lose our seats!

To entertain us, they showed a short video about jury duty. Ordinary people, talking about serving on a jury. Ordinary people, talking about how important the process is. Ordinary people, citing the Constitution and the concept of justice for the people, and by the people. It made me think....

And, sitting there, waiting to be called to go to a courtroom, I started reading a book. I bought it sometime ago, meaning to read it, and hadn't gotten to it yet. I had no idea what it was about, or how much I would enjoy it.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. What a great book! Instead of my usual “people watching,” I was completely absorbed in the book. And how apropos: a book about ordinary people, held prisoner on their island, during the German occupation of WWII.

Reading about their plight, and the ways that they survived, made me appreciate the concept of jury duty. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, waiting and waiting to be called into a courtroom, and reading an absolutely delightful book.....

And no, I wasn't particularly upset when they dismissed us at 4.

Excess....

Life is full of excesses. Too many people on parts of the planet. Too much pollution. Too much weight. Too much to do. Too much stress.

Getting rid of things sounds easy, but sometimes it isn't.

When I moved the refrigerator, in the kitchen, an old-fashioned cupboard lost its place in the scheme of things. I decided to move it outside, to hold my huge collection of paint. It now sits where a wrought iron shelf once was, and the wrought iron shelf has taken the place of another, smaller, cupboard that used to hold all my paint.

And so, I have excess. Again.

The displaced cupboard will have to find a home elsewhere. Soon, I hope. In the meantime, I am trying to figure out how its contents filled up the larger cupboard so quickly. True, there were painting things sitting on a table on the patio, but not that many things. Really.

So, I dusted off gallon cans of paint. Faded spots of paint on the lid were no help: I still couldn't tell what color some of them were. I did find some of the paint I used in the dining room, some from my bedroom, and nearly a gallon of the Cherry Cobbler that makes such a bold statement in the family room.

Considering the fact that I have painted the living room three times in the last four years, and the hallway twice, it's a wonder I didn't find any more of the former colors from those rooms. I do have at least two of everything that I need to paint: rollers, handles, paint brushes, paint trays, and painter's tape.

And spray paint. I went through my spray paint period earlier in the millenium. I had a booth in an antiques' shop and I fixed up—and painted—everything I displayed in my booth. For reasons I cannot fathom, I have 7 cans of lavender spray paint. I can understand the 10 cans of black spray paint, but not the lavender. Or the six cans of celadon, which is nothing more than a fancy name for pale green....

And I have to wonder: what is “semi-flat”? I have heard of “semi-gloss” paint, but not semi-flat. All but one of the cans of black paint are marked semi-flat. Does it mean it's half way between gloss and flat? Or more flat than gloss? Who knows these things? I do imagine it was either on sale, or in short supply. That has to be the reason for buying so much of it.

Excess....

So, the cupboard is in place. The paint cans are dusted and arranged. The brushes, rollers, trays, stirrers, steel wool, painter's tape and spackle knives are organized and inventoried. The wrought iron shelf is washed off and waiting to be moved to its new spot. The little cupboard is waiting patiently to see what I do with it.

And, if you need any lavender spray paint, call me....

Convergence..

This has been a really busy week for me. So much going on and so little time to absorb all of it. I have been especially busy at work learning new skills. Busy at home with cleaning, sorting, and moving things around.

Life is like that: busy times and not so busy times. A time to work hard and get things done, and then a time to contemplate and just be. Of course, just being is less physically exhausting, for me....

I have had a couple of hectic days off, and now I'm heading into a weekend of work. I spent today at work learning the coding program. Sort of. We'll see.....tomorrow, when I try to do what I did today. ICD-9 codes drive Medicare reimbursement. It would be nice if I could get them right.

As important as that may be, more important things have happened in my personal life. Seemingly disparate things have converged into one simple truth: life is precious. Every minute of it.

I celebrated the anniversary of my mother's birth by spending the afternoon and evening with my granddaughter, on Wednesday. We spent quality time together, enjoying each others company as we often do.

It was a compromise for my daughter, allowing my granddaughter to go out to dinner on a school night. We had to promise to have her home by bedtime. And we couldn't pick her up until her homework was finished. She did, and we did, and it was a lovely afternoon and evening together.

Yesterday was another day off. I found a treasure trove of items, and I was sorting pictures. The newest ones were nearly thirty years old. Many others were more than fifty to one hundred years old. Old prints, sepia-toned, fading with time and exposure. I have purchased boxes to store them in safely.

Many were curled up, unwilling to lie flat, even with coaxing. I have put many of them in my thick, old Webster's Unabridged Dictionary to flatten them out. Books piled on top are adding more weight to the process.

Tonight, after supper, I was watching one of many specials on television about 9/11. The one I watched was produced last year. It was hard to watch. Yet, as I did, I thought about all those old photographs, and the silly new ones I took of Noelle the day before yesterday, and I was struck by their importance.

Here, in fading sepia tones, are those people who populated our world a hundred years ago. People with hopes and dreams. People who lived and died in a time and place far away. People who are related to me or to those I love. People who have finished their journey on this planet.

And I thought about Noelle. And all the rest of my children and grandchildren. Some whose own journeys are barely begun, and others who have gone some distance already. I thought about how important it is to share those sepia-toned pictures with them, so they know their own stories.

And finally, I thought about myself. And my place in their lives. Both the younger ones, and the older ones who are gone. Watching people on television talk about the loved ones they lost on 9/11, and feeling their sorrow, helped me realize that today is important.

Connections are important. Thinking about how much I love my family is not enough. I have to reach out and connect. Say those words that need to be said. Let them know how important they are to me. Sharing our lives on a daily basis, not just once in awhile, when it's convenient.

As we remember those who died on 9/11, and offer prayers of condolence for those left behind, let us also be thankful for those we love, and those who love us in return. For the sake of those who have died, and those who are still with us, and dear to us, let us find peace.

Someday, I want Noelle to be able to sort all my old photographs.....and think lovingly of me.

Cali 'Splains Economic$

Economics is a dismal science, full of principles that are difficult to understand. Studying economics is depressing. And life is depressing enough, at times, without thinking about economics. Or maybe because of economics.

Another problem with listening to economists is that they are so well educated that, trying to understand what they are saying goes beyond our capabilities, as non-economists. And, as a non-economist with years and years of experience, I humbly present my own economic paradigm.

(I was once asked what a paradigm is, and I answered: twenty cents.....[think about it]....)

The four principles are really quite basic:

Don't spend more money than you earn.

Don't buy anything you don't need.

Save for a rainy day.

And...

Help others.

I know what you're thinking: how can I spend more than I earn when I don't even earn enough to buy the necessities of life. Take another look: what made the “list” of necessities? A McMansion? A plasma TV? A huge gas-guzzling car? A trip around the world? Food?

Rethink things. Look at the difference between what you earn and what you spend: that's how much you're going in the hole every month. Or how much you're saving every month.....

Here's another way to determine if you “need” something. Start saving money to pay cash for your something. Put a few nickels, or dollars, in the jar every time you can. When you have finally saved enough money to buy what you “need” and if it's still available for sale, ask yourself if you really still want it. Having to save up for it may take the “glamor and magic” out of owning it.

Save for a rainy day. I know, it's already raining on the economic scene. But, it can always rain harder. You can have a bigger, more pressing need, later. So save what you can today.

Ah, helping others. “Nobody's helping me, why should I help others?” Because that is what we are supposed to do. Help others. Not necessarily financially, but in some fashion. If you have more clothes than you need, give some away. If you have things that are cluttering your life, give them away.

Chances are, if you had saved money in a jar to pay for them, you never would have bought them.

I firmly believe that those who are capable of appropriating billions of dollars for national, or international, projects would do well to follow my principles. If any of you know any of them, have them call me; I'd be glad to help....

No, if you follow these principles, you will NOT become rich overnight. No, I don't have a DVD and accompanying book to sell you, for a mere $29.95 (a month, for a year). You can't sign up to receive my monthly economic email, and I am not an adviser to the POTUS.

I am just Cali, and I want to help you.

Orion Rising....

I was outside this morning, around five, and it was dark still. And cold. I was cold in the early morning air. That's okay, though, as it has been a long time since I was cold. Months, in fact.

The moon was only a quarter of itself, hanging low in the southeast. And not far from it, rising in the late summer/early autumn sky, was Orion. The sky was particularly clear and Orion's Belt was unmistakable. I stood, transfixed, and stared at it for quite some time.

I remember summer nights, lying on a blanket on the lawn, looking up at the stars. My brothers and I, listening, fascinated, to Daddy's stories about sailors navigating the oceans by following the stars. Daddy knew all the names of the constellations and the Greek mythology that went with them.

Because we were out looking at the stars in the summer, I don't think we ever saw Orion. At least, I don't remember seeing it.

The Yokut Indians, a tribe here in Central California, believed that Orion's Belt represented the footprints of the flea god, who went to search the skies for his five wives. The Yokuts knew that they couldn't count on those stars to guide them in the summertime. And that there wouldn't be any fleas in the winter.

Seeing Orion means that time is passing. Another summer is drawing to a close and another winter is approaching. I have no way of knowing how many winters I will have. Or how many summers, either, until the end of my days.

All I know is that each one is special. Each one has its own purpose. And each one brings me more and more appreciation of the wonders that surround me. That's what life should be, to me: an appreciation of the incredible stars in the universe.

A sense of continuation and a readiness to embrace change. A group of stars to navigate through life by, knowing that, as things change, and change again, Orion will still be there, in the autumn sky: the hunter, the flea god, or whatever else it represents, in other cultures.

It will always be Orion.