Life's been good to me. I ought to stop complaining.
I know that regular readers will comment and remind me that they don't mind my venting, that they feel privileged to be able to read my screeds, that they love to listen and to help me heal. I love those notes; they warm my heart and help me feel less alone in my journey toward a fluid gait. I'm annoyed with myself for something else.
I know that I have to write about my stumbling blocks, and I know that I am lucky to have you out there to read them. If I kept the feelings bottled up inside, I'd never make any progress at all. Sometimes, the sadness or the slowness or the achiness wells up and pours out through my fingertips. I'm glad to watch it leave my soul. For my own good, I can rob it of power by typing it to you.
I was never a diary keeper. The Burrow is like a long letter to good friends. It feel less self-indulgent than writing only for myself. There's something very cleansing about putting my thoughts down, forever. I'll always remember that I was cranky on June 17, 2013. I just have to re-read the post. If I need it, I know where to find it. I try to avoid needing it.
There are times, like right now, where I feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel, sitting across from Miss Mr. Darcy as he writes to his sister, who has remained in town. I'm out here preserving the moment in time by sharing it with you. I'm so lucky to have the chance to examine my life among strangers and friends and family and I'm annoyed with myself for letting us down.
There are issues to be discussed and funny stories to be told, but I'm wallowing in the doldrums. I'm too hot.... I'm too tired.... I have company.... all true, none good enough. We deserve better. You deserve better.
I can list the things that have brought me down here, but why dwell on them when I'm looking for a way up and out? I'm going to concentrate on the good parts, the rewarding parts, the parts that don't make me scream or cry or howl. I'm done swirling in the abyss.
As TBG told the obstetrician while I lay cursing the air I breathed, I need to feel the bottom before I can start taking charge. It didn't take very long then, and it didn't take that long now, either. I'm sorry for the inconvenience... sorry for whimpering..... glad you are still hanging around.... ready to take on the world.
Come back tomorrow, when Jeff Flake is, once again, on my radar.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Out of Sorts
While
it is true that I'm feeling antsy and I don't know why, that's not
what this post is about. It's about the laugh I got when I analyzed my emotional state and said
that phrase to myself on the drive home from the post office. I
laughed as I wondered where my sorts had gone. I thought I had plenty
of them in stock....
Or, I
wondered, was I in sorts over the weekend with my girlfriend and am I now out of sorts because she is gone? It's a mystery, that's for sure.
This obsession with absurdity in the language began in earnest when Big Cuter was an infant. His pediatrician had just opened his practice, leaving hospital medicine behind for the pleasures of becoming more involved with the families of the children he treated. Our appointments lasted for an hour, back then. He always had a story about one of his own four boys, he was never rushed, he always began by asking how the parents were doing, and he had a sense of humor.
Big Cuter's first high fever sent me rushing to the office, droopy baby in my arms. He lay on the examining table, warm to the touch and uninterested in the world around him. This was not my boy; "He's so listless," I lamented.
Pausing in his exam, the doctor looked over at me and nodded sagely. "Yes, indeed. There is an absence of list." He went back to the patient, and I was left to wonder if one can be listful. It was better than worrying about my baby.
Merle Reagle, crossword creator extraordinaire, calls phrases that can't be literally deconstructed Bang Bang Words. Take the traitorous turn coat. It's the coat that is turning, isn't it? Coat turn would be more correct.
This, denizens, is what happens to the human brain when the temperatures are over one hundred degrees day after day after week after week. When the clouds form and then disappear, dropping nary a trickle on the overheated land, it's all I can do not to cry. My mind cries out for relief. It is melting.
******
I told you my brain was melted... I never pushed "publish"..... forgive me for posting late today ??
******
I told you my brain was melted... I never pushed "publish"..... forgive me for posting late today ??
Monday, June 17, 2013
Tucson Through Her Eyes
No one is neutral about her. She makes me smile when others cringe. Growing up with Daddooooo inured me to the fall out of expressing one's feelings at great volume, in public. I know the words are not meant to defame or demean or diminish. They are certainly not designed to exact the desired result, which is a good thing, because they rarely succeed. They are honest expressions of her feelings at the time; there's no boundary between her brain and her mouth when she feels she's been wronged. She feels that way a lot.
I finally convinced her to make a plane reservation and spend a few days in Tucson. She was nervous but said WTF (she says that a lot) and came to spend the weekend. She's been gone twelve hours; I miss her.
There's an intensity to her that is missing from everyone else I know. The first night she was here, my legs were jittering up and down, my foot rubbing against my newly sensate thigh, my toes flexing and arching to stretch my tendons and try, somehow to calm down. Finding someone who is more hyper than I am is always a treat; I feel so calm beside her. The downside of the equation is that it's very hard to turn it all off.
She's a Play Group Mom, so much of the weekend was spent kvelling about our children. Kvelling is what you do when you are so proud that your heart is bursting; from the outside it probably would be called bragging. But, we watched our kids grow up, together, for the last twenty-nine years and six months. That's a of body knowledge that cannot be replicated.
We gave one another advice, we give one another advice, and our friendship was deep enough that we could argue or agree with impunity. We have been laughing at one another's foibles for three decades. We exhaust one another. We also respect the other's space. Naps were taken. I swam laps for an hour. We'd both been brought up with the same admonition: Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days. Neither of us wanted to disappoint the other; it didn't take very long to fall into an easy rhythm.
She's a very easy guest. She insisted on paying for most of the meals, and I smiled and said "Yes." There were so many more interesting topics over which we could squabble. It feels like New York; it's really Chicago. It's purposeful and judgmental and over the top and I love it.
For three days.
We drove to new housing developments because she's a real estate agent and she was interested. It didn't take her long to discover that she was not going to move to a neighborhood like that. She'd feel too alone. Up until that moment, I had no idea that she was considering relocating to my town.
Looking at houses wasn't merely a way to pass the time. It was more than comparison pricing and had little to do with the quality of the construction of the models we toured. It was putting herself in the situation, trying it on for size.
No wonder the world disappoints her so often.
Tucson didn't fit. She needed more traffic lights. I moved here to get away from traffic lights.
Driving to the airport for the early flight this morning, she reassured me that "Tucson will become a metropolis." She didn't want me to worry. She was assuming that I was embarrassed by the small town nature of my town. I talked about dysfunctional local government as I smiled to myself.
I think Chicago is the best city in America today, but Tucson is a town and I love it that way. It's a college town and a cowboy town and I love every funky, barely traveled road. I love the saguaros and the Santa Catalinas and I showed them all to her. She acknowledged their beauty as she reminded herself that she wasn't going to live here.
That's okay. I'll go to Chicago and visit her. I'll wonder aloud how she can stand fighting for parking. I'll complain about the humidity. I'll gasp at the tax rate and the fee at the formerly free museums.
And I'll leave in three days.
I finally convinced her to make a plane reservation and spend a few days in Tucson. She was nervous but said WTF (she says that a lot) and came to spend the weekend. She's been gone twelve hours; I miss her.
There's an intensity to her that is missing from everyone else I know. The first night she was here, my legs were jittering up and down, my foot rubbing against my newly sensate thigh, my toes flexing and arching to stretch my tendons and try, somehow to calm down. Finding someone who is more hyper than I am is always a treat; I feel so calm beside her. The downside of the equation is that it's very hard to turn it all off.
She's a Play Group Mom, so much of the weekend was spent kvelling about our children. Kvelling is what you do when you are so proud that your heart is bursting; from the outside it probably would be called bragging. But, we watched our kids grow up, together, for the last twenty-nine years and six months. That's a of body knowledge that cannot be replicated.
We gave one another advice, we give one another advice, and our friendship was deep enough that we could argue or agree with impunity. We have been laughing at one another's foibles for three decades. We exhaust one another. We also respect the other's space. Naps were taken. I swam laps for an hour. We'd both been brought up with the same admonition: Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days. Neither of us wanted to disappoint the other; it didn't take very long to fall into an easy rhythm.
She's a very easy guest. She insisted on paying for most of the meals, and I smiled and said "Yes." There were so many more interesting topics over which we could squabble. It feels like New York; it's really Chicago. It's purposeful and judgmental and over the top and I love it.
For three days.
We drove to new housing developments because she's a real estate agent and she was interested. It didn't take her long to discover that she was not going to move to a neighborhood like that. She'd feel too alone. Up until that moment, I had no idea that she was considering relocating to my town.
Looking at houses wasn't merely a way to pass the time. It was more than comparison pricing and had little to do with the quality of the construction of the models we toured. It was putting herself in the situation, trying it on for size.
No wonder the world disappoints her so often.
Tucson didn't fit. She needed more traffic lights. I moved here to get away from traffic lights.
Driving to the airport for the early flight this morning, she reassured me that "Tucson will become a metropolis." She didn't want me to worry. She was assuming that I was embarrassed by the small town nature of my town. I talked about dysfunctional local government as I smiled to myself.
I think Chicago is the best city in America today, but Tucson is a town and I love it that way. It's a college town and a cowboy town and I love every funky, barely traveled road. I love the saguaros and the Santa Catalinas and I showed them all to her. She acknowledged their beauty as she reminded herself that she wasn't going to live here.
That's okay. I'll go to Chicago and visit her. I'll wonder aloud how she can stand fighting for parking. I'll complain about the humidity. I'll gasp at the tax rate and the fee at the formerly free museums.
And I'll leave in three days.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Non-Responsive
G'ma has staples in her thigh. I try not to tell her about them, because it makes her face go all scrunched up and annoyed, but they are certainly there. Apparently, they need to be removed by a trained medical professional. In order for that to occur, an order must be written by the surgeon and transmitted via fax to the pod-castle. The pod-castle will then allow the visiting nurse to have access to G'ma's flesh.
The order should have accompanied the discharge summary on G'ma's journey from the hospital to her home. That didn't happen. Apparently, it's not usual for the surgeon to inquire about the ease of transporting the patient to his office for staple removal. It didn't occur to the Case Manager, who used to be called the Discharge Planner, either. I certainly didn't think about it. I didn't even know it was an issue. I assumed that she had dissolving sutures that would be absorbed into the wound as it healed. Otherwise, someone would have mentioned that the staples had to come out.... right?
Had the physical therapist not called and asked me about the staples, I wouldn't have known that it was an issue. His call prompted me to contact the pod-castle, the visiting nurse, the surgeon, and the liquor cabinet. All those professionals, and only the nurse returned my call.
She's not too worried. The staples "just sit there" and don't do any damage to the incision or the flesh surrounding it. Still, they shouldn't become a permanent part of my mother's landscape. The order must be in her chart for the process to move forward.
Without anxiety, but with concern, I called the surgeon's office again this afternoon, twenty-four hours after my first call. The friendly young man at reception took my information and found yesterday's message in yesterday's pile of messages. There was no one he could ask for clarification about the timeline for getting the order faxed to the facility; everyone was at lunch. He did remind me, several times, that my original message had been taken and given to the appropriate humans. He also informed me that the office asks for 24 to 72 hours for phone calls to be returned. I guess that means that G'ma and her staples are going to be keeping close company until next week. No one but the PT and I are sensing any urgency in the situation.
I suppose I should take a deep breath and relax about it, but that's asking for more than I can give. The issue lives on in my inbox, on my to-do list, in my heart ache. I want G'ma to get better. I don't want her to have metal in her leg. I want this done. I'm hearing Mick singing in the background..... reminding me that I can't always get what I want.
It's been that kind of a week. I called the pod-castle's administrator to ask for a meeting of all G'ma's caregivers so that we can go over when and about what they should call me. There are so new medical issues since G'ma's been home from the hospital; they've called her primary care physician but neglected to include me in the loop. How can I keep track of what's going on if no one tells me? I've been waiting all day for a phone call responding to my message.
The PCP hasn't called the pod-castle, either, or so they claim. They expressed their concerns to the visiting nurse, which is how I heard about the new issue. There's no explanation for the change in symptoms; someone remembers hearing someone say "Don't worry about it," but no one remembers who was on either end of that conversation. His good communication skills were the main reason we chose this physician; I have a hard time believing that he would leave them hanging.
In fact, as I was typing that paragraph, the doctor's office called. They'll stop her blood thinner for a while, I shouldn't worry, they'll fax an order with the new regimen to the pod-castle, and would I please encourage the staff there to call and confirm the receipt of the order? Apparently, the doctor's office calls and leaves messages but no one calls them back.
There's a lot of that going around these days, inside and outside the medical community.
Amster and her Firefighter needed something from our Congressman. After a month of hearing nothing, she asked if I knew someone in the office to whom she could reach out. I made a call, found a friend, got an email address and a name, and they are good to go..... for now. The request has not been considered, it's finally on the way to the right person for review. Now, we wait for a response.
The IRS approved GRIN 501c3 status in February, or so the rumor has it. They claim to have mailed me a letter with the acceptance and the numbers we need in order to use it. I never saw it. Beautiful Annie, my pro-bono lawyer who is doing much more work on this than she intended or needed, tells me that a verbal request for the number is insufficient. She has to write them a letter and then we wait for their response. The fact that I could use the summer to garner donations for upcoming projects for the school year is meaningless to them. They are bureaucrats with power; I'm just a supplicant.
I was on hold for ten minutes this morning, waiting for the appointment line to accept my phone call. The facility is huge, the need is great, the classical Muzak wasn't unpleasant, but nothing was getting done. As I waited, I typed an email to a friend who works there. Could she help? Fifteen minutes after I hit Send and hung up the phone (in that order), she'd responded with two dates and times and an apology.
She, the most responsive of my contacts this week, was the only one to apologize for the delay. Everyone else seemed to think it was the usual cost of doing business. Everyone but me, that is.
NPR told me that the average young person looks at her smart phone 250 times a day. Offices have computer screens and fax machines and staff members have pagers and intercoms and cell phones attached to their uniforms. Information is sent instantaneously... once it knows that it has to be sent. The systems are all in place. It's the humans that are creating the problems.
Have we gotten so far deep into our own personal silos that connecting with the outside world, even when it's important, has receded into merely an annoying background noise? I feel like sending a skywriter up to the heavens to announce to the world: I am here. I am waiting for you.
Perhaps that will get their attention.
The order should have accompanied the discharge summary on G'ma's journey from the hospital to her home. That didn't happen. Apparently, it's not usual for the surgeon to inquire about the ease of transporting the patient to his office for staple removal. It didn't occur to the Case Manager, who used to be called the Discharge Planner, either. I certainly didn't think about it. I didn't even know it was an issue. I assumed that she had dissolving sutures that would be absorbed into the wound as it healed. Otherwise, someone would have mentioned that the staples had to come out.... right?
Had the physical therapist not called and asked me about the staples, I wouldn't have known that it was an issue. His call prompted me to contact the pod-castle, the visiting nurse, the surgeon, and the liquor cabinet. All those professionals, and only the nurse returned my call.
She's not too worried. The staples "just sit there" and don't do any damage to the incision or the flesh surrounding it. Still, they shouldn't become a permanent part of my mother's landscape. The order must be in her chart for the process to move forward.
Without anxiety, but with concern, I called the surgeon's office again this afternoon, twenty-four hours after my first call. The friendly young man at reception took my information and found yesterday's message in yesterday's pile of messages. There was no one he could ask for clarification about the timeline for getting the order faxed to the facility; everyone was at lunch. He did remind me, several times, that my original message had been taken and given to the appropriate humans. He also informed me that the office asks for 24 to 72 hours for phone calls to be returned. I guess that means that G'ma and her staples are going to be keeping close company until next week. No one but the PT and I are sensing any urgency in the situation.
I suppose I should take a deep breath and relax about it, but that's asking for more than I can give. The issue lives on in my inbox, on my to-do list, in my heart ache. I want G'ma to get better. I don't want her to have metal in her leg. I want this done. I'm hearing Mick singing in the background..... reminding me that I can't always get what I want.
It's been that kind of a week. I called the pod-castle's administrator to ask for a meeting of all G'ma's caregivers so that we can go over when and about what they should call me. There are so new medical issues since G'ma's been home from the hospital; they've called her primary care physician but neglected to include me in the loop. How can I keep track of what's going on if no one tells me? I've been waiting all day for a phone call responding to my message.
The PCP hasn't called the pod-castle, either, or so they claim. They expressed their concerns to the visiting nurse, which is how I heard about the new issue. There's no explanation for the change in symptoms; someone remembers hearing someone say "Don't worry about it," but no one remembers who was on either end of that conversation. His good communication skills were the main reason we chose this physician; I have a hard time believing that he would leave them hanging.
In fact, as I was typing that paragraph, the doctor's office called. They'll stop her blood thinner for a while, I shouldn't worry, they'll fax an order with the new regimen to the pod-castle, and would I please encourage the staff there to call and confirm the receipt of the order? Apparently, the doctor's office calls and leaves messages but no one calls them back.
There's a lot of that going around these days, inside and outside the medical community.
Amster and her Firefighter needed something from our Congressman. After a month of hearing nothing, she asked if I knew someone in the office to whom she could reach out. I made a call, found a friend, got an email address and a name, and they are good to go..... for now. The request has not been considered, it's finally on the way to the right person for review. Now, we wait for a response.
The IRS approved GRIN 501c3 status in February, or so the rumor has it. They claim to have mailed me a letter with the acceptance and the numbers we need in order to use it. I never saw it. Beautiful Annie, my pro-bono lawyer who is doing much more work on this than she intended or needed, tells me that a verbal request for the number is insufficient. She has to write them a letter and then we wait for their response. The fact that I could use the summer to garner donations for upcoming projects for the school year is meaningless to them. They are bureaucrats with power; I'm just a supplicant.
I was on hold for ten minutes this morning, waiting for the appointment line to accept my phone call. The facility is huge, the need is great, the classical Muzak wasn't unpleasant, but nothing was getting done. As I waited, I typed an email to a friend who works there. Could she help? Fifteen minutes after I hit Send and hung up the phone (in that order), she'd responded with two dates and times and an apology.
She, the most responsive of my contacts this week, was the only one to apologize for the delay. Everyone else seemed to think it was the usual cost of doing business. Everyone but me, that is.
NPR told me that the average young person looks at her smart phone 250 times a day. Offices have computer screens and fax machines and staff members have pagers and intercoms and cell phones attached to their uniforms. Information is sent instantaneously... once it knows that it has to be sent. The systems are all in place. It's the humans that are creating the problems.
Have we gotten so far deep into our own personal silos that connecting with the outside world, even when it's important, has receded into merely an annoying background noise? I feel like sending a skywriter up to the heavens to announce to the world: I am here. I am waiting for you.
Perhaps that will get their attention.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Thoughts on Sports
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm watching hockey on television. I drew the line at hockey. I learned football and basketball and soccer and lacrosse and tennis but I drew the line at hockey. I'd seen professional hockey as a child; Daddooooo and his brother and my cousin and I sat high up and cold at a Rangers' game, as I recall. It's not that I rejected it sight unseen. I saw and I said no.
Yet, somehow, during this drought time in my boys' sports world calendar, I find myself wondering when the next playoff game will be on tv. My Facebook post, HAWKS !!!, was up and liked by Little Cuter and The Bride before they could post themselves. I was seriously considering asking for a Blackhawk's jersey.
I'm a fair weather fan, there's no denying it. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself.
*****
I don't believe in the NBA. I know that David Stern is considered the guru of all league commissioners, but there's rarely a game that's worth watching before the fourth quarter, and even then, it doesn't matter if you miss a minute or two. TBG taught me that basketball is a team sport, a game of finesse and strategy and strength. What I see today, in the NBA, is tall men looking for their fifteen seconds of fame on Sports Center, hoping to bump and shove and muscle their way to stardom.
It's not that much fun to watch.
Still, I found myself cheering for the Pacers and then for the Spurs and now, more than ever, for the Spurs as they take on the team that was supposed to win several of these championships and which is now down, 1-0, in the series.
The Miami Heat had an incredible run this season, but that's history. It's true that a loss is a loss no matter the score, but losing by 36, as the Heat did in Game One, is humiliating. I admit that I loved every minute of it.
Why?
LeBron left Cleveland for Miami and, on behalf of all the family members who live there and loved him, I've found it impossible to forgive him. The man makes $20 million a year. Triple-doubles should be the expectation. Imagine if you offered a great principal $20 million dollars; you'd expect excellence in the classroom, wouldn't you?
I'm not saying it's rational. It's sports. It doesn't have to be rational. That's the beauty of fandom.
*****
TBG and I know nothing about hockey. I had to go on-line to find us a definition of icing; I can't say that I can follow the puck well enough to recognize it in action. In fact, following the puck is often more a sense than an actual fact. TBG listens to the crowd for a sense of who has possession. We both watch the crowd of players and hope that the puck is somewhere in their vicinity.
Sometimes, though, we're watching the right player just as he cuts and jukes and skates past the defender and SCORE!!s. It's magical.
*****
The announcer described a small but aggressive player's actions in the same way that we told the less competent recreational soccer players in the Under 8 division what to do: Go out and be annoying. We know you can be annoying; you have siblings
I guess some things never change. Sometimes, all you can do is get in their way.
*****
The men who spoke at the press conference were polite, well spoken, wore no hats or jewelry or logo-ed apparel
*****
Another perk of watching sports is the opportunity to judge. We yell "Shoot the damn puck!" and "Box out!" and wonder if we should suit up, ourselves, and show them how it's done. The referees need our assistance, except in hockey, where we know enough to defer.
It's a rush unlike any other when I contemplate skating fast, backwards, with a stick in my hand.. and SIR, TBG and The Cuters are by my side. For that one moment, it's real... and wonderful... and possible.
*****
Triple overtime in the hockey game is the same as the 30 point blow-out in the basketball game... they both go on forever.
*
Yet, somehow, during this drought time in my boys' sports world calendar, I find myself wondering when the next playoff game will be on tv. My Facebook post, HAWKS !!!, was up and liked by Little Cuter and The Bride before they could post themselves. I was seriously considering asking for a Blackhawk's jersey.
I'm a fair weather fan, there's no denying it. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself.
*****
I don't believe in the NBA. I know that David Stern is considered the guru of all league commissioners, but there's rarely a game that's worth watching before the fourth quarter, and even then, it doesn't matter if you miss a minute or two. TBG taught me that basketball is a team sport, a game of finesse and strategy and strength. What I see today, in the NBA, is tall men looking for their fifteen seconds of fame on Sports Center, hoping to bump and shove and muscle their way to stardom.
It's not that much fun to watch.
Still, I found myself cheering for the Pacers and then for the Spurs and now, more than ever, for the Spurs as they take on the team that was supposed to win several of these championships and which is now down, 1-0, in the series.
The Miami Heat had an incredible run this season, but that's history. It's true that a loss is a loss no matter the score, but losing by 36, as the Heat did in Game One, is humiliating. I admit that I loved every minute of it.
Why?
LeBron left Cleveland for Miami and, on behalf of all the family members who live there and loved him, I've found it impossible to forgive him. The man makes $20 million a year. Triple-doubles should be the expectation. Imagine if you offered a great principal $20 million dollars; you'd expect excellence in the classroom, wouldn't you?
I'm not saying it's rational. It's sports. It doesn't have to be rational. That's the beauty of fandom.
*****
TBG and I know nothing about hockey. I had to go on-line to find us a definition of icing; I can't say that I can follow the puck well enough to recognize it in action. In fact, following the puck is often more a sense than an actual fact. TBG listens to the crowd for a sense of who has possession. We both watch the crowd of players and hope that the puck is somewhere in their vicinity.
Sometimes, though, we're watching the right player just as he cuts and jukes and skates past the defender and SCORE!!s. It's magical.
*****
The announcer described a small but aggressive player's actions in the same way that we told the less competent recreational soccer players in the Under 8 division what to do: Go out and be annoying. We know you can be annoying; you have siblings
I guess some things never change. Sometimes, all you can do is get in their way.
*****
The men who spoke at the press conference were polite, well spoken, wore no hats or jewelry or logo-ed apparel
*****
Another perk of watching sports is the opportunity to judge. We yell "Shoot the damn puck!" and "Box out!" and wonder if we should suit up, ourselves, and show them how it's done. The referees need our assistance, except in hockey, where we know enough to defer.
It's a rush unlike any other when I contemplate skating fast, backwards, with a stick in my hand.. and SIR, TBG and The Cuters are by my side. For that one moment, it's real... and wonderful... and possible.
*****
Triple overtime in the hockey game is the same as the 30 point blow-out in the basketball game... they both go on forever.
*
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
It's a Matter of Perspective
I'm sure that's what TBG would have said, had anyone bothered to ask him.
Of course, he was just a little guy back then. Four years old, the apple of everyone's eye, curly blonde hair and big blue eyes and the sweetest disposition in the world. His proudest possession was his brand new pocket knife. His mom's proudest possession was her new dinette set, delivered that afternoon. Those soft and gooshy seat cushions were full of wonderment for our knife wielding hero that day. Why were they so soft? What was inside? Carefully, precisely, with great deliberation and concentration, he carved his favorite number - 4 - into the center of each of the chairs. After all, he couldn't assume that they were all the same, could he?
The new furniture was consigned to the basement that evening. The felon lost his implement of destruction. His mom remembered the feeling of loss fifteen years later, when I met her for the first time. Some things resonate deeply for very different reasons.
I helped a friend make the thousands of decisions involved in building a house from the foundation, up. I wasn't trusted with the prettifying details; I was the one who could be counted on to get excited over door hinges and switch plates and outlet covers. Every choice was considered, evaluated, pondered, even obsessed over. There was nothing random about their space; they waited until they found the right piece before any furniture was ordered.
When the dining room set was delivered, I was invited to be the first to see it... in the afternoon... after my friend got home from her little girl's play party. Somehow, after leaving kindergarten just before lunch with a playmate, her big boy and his pal managed to swipe random streaks of vibrant oil paints on the front and back and seat cushion of one of the chairs. The babysitter, interested in the sudden quiet, discovered the two boys intently decorating the new furniture.
My girlfriend was furious, appropriate use of painting materials was discussed with the miscreants, the sitter was encouraged to keep a closer eye upon her charges.... and then there was the chair. Reupholstering one of them would mean a different dye lot, a slightly different color, a jarring element in an otherwise well planned environment. It didn't take long before she got to work; her plain grey chairs were splashes of playful color after she and her paintbrushes were finished with them.
It made for a great story, especially since her son could be counted on to remind the listener that painting chairs was "really, really fun."
I was reminded of this by a cousin's Facebook post.
Then, again, they weren't my dinette chairs or dining room set or headrest. My guess is that my perspective would be just a little bit different if they were.
Of course, he was just a little guy back then. Four years old, the apple of everyone's eye, curly blonde hair and big blue eyes and the sweetest disposition in the world. His proudest possession was his brand new pocket knife. His mom's proudest possession was her new dinette set, delivered that afternoon. Those soft and gooshy seat cushions were full of wonderment for our knife wielding hero that day. Why were they so soft? What was inside? Carefully, precisely, with great deliberation and concentration, he carved his favorite number - 4 - into the center of each of the chairs. After all, he couldn't assume that they were all the same, could he?
The new furniture was consigned to the basement that evening. The felon lost his implement of destruction. His mom remembered the feeling of loss fifteen years later, when I met her for the first time. Some things resonate deeply for very different reasons.
I helped a friend make the thousands of decisions involved in building a house from the foundation, up. I wasn't trusted with the prettifying details; I was the one who could be counted on to get excited over door hinges and switch plates and outlet covers. Every choice was considered, evaluated, pondered, even obsessed over. There was nothing random about their space; they waited until they found the right piece before any furniture was ordered.
When the dining room set was delivered, I was invited to be the first to see it... in the afternoon... after my friend got home from her little girl's play party. Somehow, after leaving kindergarten just before lunch with a playmate, her big boy and his pal managed to swipe random streaks of vibrant oil paints on the front and back and seat cushion of one of the chairs. The babysitter, interested in the sudden quiet, discovered the two boys intently decorating the new furniture.
My girlfriend was furious, appropriate use of painting materials was discussed with the miscreants, the sitter was encouraged to keep a closer eye upon her charges.... and then there was the chair. Reupholstering one of them would mean a different dye lot, a slightly different color, a jarring element in an otherwise well planned environment. It didn't take long before she got to work; her plain grey chairs were splashes of playful color after she and her paintbrushes were finished with them.
It made for a great story, especially since her son could be counted on to remind the listener that painting chairs was "really, really fun."
I was reminded of this by a cousin's Facebook post.
Ballpoint ink on a leather headrest...I'm not sure how to punish this crime...I want something that is fitting and hopefully make her think twice before destroying something again. Any thoughts? —The first few comments were on ink removal; it's not a hopeful scenario, I'm afraid. Graffiti removal and paying for the re-upholstery job have popped up, too. I wondered if they wanted to decorate the whole thing, a la those dining room chairs. It's all about perspective. I bet that pen felt great, sinking into the textured leather. It's a snapshot in time, the doodles she is drawing this summer... and only this summer, it's who she is and how distracted she was and yes, the car looks like crap but, somehow, I can see the kid's point.feeling annoyed.
Then, again, they weren't my dinette chairs or dining room set or headrest. My guess is that my perspective would be just a little bit different if they were.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Random Thoughts - The OMG It's Hot Edition
I knew it was going to be this way when I moved here. The movers knew what to expect; they arrived at 5am and were gone by 10. We unpacked in the nude and didn't even notice the other's exposed flesh until hours had passed. We were just too hot to care.
I've never been so grateful for anything in my life as I was for the pool in the backyard that day.
*****
Facebook is covered with heat-related commentary. This was my contribution to the thermometer meme. It felt good to take my hands off the steering wheel long enough to take the picture with my phone.
I'm thinking of adding oven mitts to my First Aid Kit.
*****
There was a lovely breeze stirring the Texas Mountain Laurel this morning. The sun was just over the mountain tops. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I was sweating by the time I retrieved the newspaper and walked back to the air conditioned house.
It's not even getting to 8am before the temperatures drive me indoors.
*****
TBG's figured out how to adjust the air vents so that the flow keeps him relatively cool when he puts the top down on the shiny red convertible. Still, he only drives to the gym and back, and then, only early in the day. He's sweaty when he gets back into the car and that, I imagine, is the only way he can sit on those black seats with the sun pouring down on him as he waits for a traffic light to change.
I can only ride with him once the sun has set. Without all the vents pointing his way, it's unbearable.
*****
JannyLou has company.
The young male visitor just zipped out of her driveway in the Mini Cooper with the big sunroof wide open.
He's obviously a tourist.
*****
The heater on the pool reads in the upper 140's. Since we have the thermostat set at 85, the heater thinks it's doing a fine job and won't turn on. This is not an issue as the day wears on and the sun does her job of speeding up the molecules, but first thing in the morning, shaded and unheated, it's a bit brisk.
By the end of the day, when I'm as hot as I've ever been, a little bit of briskness would be just swell. If I could only get the pool to cooperate.
*****
Mr. 10 (today! Happy Birthday!!) and I spent a day together last week. We supervised the yard guys as they swept and raked and trimmed and received a much welcomed soaking from our Super Soakers as we flailed around in the pool, watching them work and discussing the value of an education. We went to two bookstores, one coffee shop, and had ice cream three times. We played Scrabble (a tie).
The best part, according to my little friend? Watching Ernie's guys behead the baby rattlesnake which had been hiding beneath their truck.
"I got to see him kill it and everything!" he told his insanely jealous brother.
There are pieces of little boys I just cannot understand.
*****
It's hard to see the sun shine and know the wisest course is to stay indoors. I remind myself that I don't sit outside for 5 hours in January in Chicago, and so I don't do it in June in Tucson and that should be just fine.... except it's June and every fiber of my being wants to be mucking around in the garden in the middle of the day.
On the other hand, I don't have to shovel it, or slip on it.
My girlfriend is coming to visit this weekend. I hope this post doesn't scare her off. I'll have to remind her that it's a dry heat.......
I've never been so grateful for anything in my life as I was for the pool in the backyard that day.
*****
Facebook is covered with heat-related commentary. This was my contribution to the thermometer meme. It felt good to take my hands off the steering wheel long enough to take the picture with my phone.
I'm thinking of adding oven mitts to my First Aid Kit.
*****
There was a lovely breeze stirring the Texas Mountain Laurel this morning. The sun was just over the mountain tops. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. I was sweating by the time I retrieved the newspaper and walked back to the air conditioned house.
It's not even getting to 8am before the temperatures drive me indoors.
*****
TBG's figured out how to adjust the air vents so that the flow keeps him relatively cool when he puts the top down on the shiny red convertible. Still, he only drives to the gym and back, and then, only early in the day. He's sweaty when he gets back into the car and that, I imagine, is the only way he can sit on those black seats with the sun pouring down on him as he waits for a traffic light to change.
I can only ride with him once the sun has set. Without all the vents pointing his way, it's unbearable.
*****
JannyLou has company.
The young male visitor just zipped out of her driveway in the Mini Cooper with the big sunroof wide open.
He's obviously a tourist.
*****
The heater on the pool reads in the upper 140's. Since we have the thermostat set at 85, the heater thinks it's doing a fine job and won't turn on. This is not an issue as the day wears on and the sun does her job of speeding up the molecules, but first thing in the morning, shaded and unheated, it's a bit brisk.
By the end of the day, when I'm as hot as I've ever been, a little bit of briskness would be just swell. If I could only get the pool to cooperate.
*****
Mr. 10 (today! Happy Birthday!!) and I spent a day together last week. We supervised the yard guys as they swept and raked and trimmed and received a much welcomed soaking from our Super Soakers as we flailed around in the pool, watching them work and discussing the value of an education. We went to two bookstores, one coffee shop, and had ice cream three times. We played Scrabble (a tie).
The best part, according to my little friend? Watching Ernie's guys behead the baby rattlesnake which had been hiding beneath their truck.
"I got to see him kill it and everything!" he told his insanely jealous brother.
There are pieces of little boys I just cannot understand.
*****
It's hard to see the sun shine and know the wisest course is to stay indoors. I remind myself that I don't sit outside for 5 hours in January in Chicago, and so I don't do it in June in Tucson and that should be just fine.... except it's June and every fiber of my being wants to be mucking around in the garden in the middle of the day.
On the other hand, I don't have to shovel it, or slip on it.
My girlfriend is coming to visit this weekend. I hope this post doesn't scare her off. I'll have to remind her that it's a dry heat.......
Monday, June 10, 2013
Another Sunny Saturday
I swam. I ate. I got a haircut. I met TBG for lunch, read a book, cooked dinner, watched the Blackhawks, and went to bed. It was a regular, ordinary, Saturday... except there aren't any regular, ordinary, Saturdays any more. There haven't been for two and a half years.
Exactly two and a half years ago today the world was turned upside down. A nine year old was dead, my Congresswoman's brain was held together by a staffer, and I was riding in a Med-Evac helicopter.
Med-Evac.... Medical Evacuation... those are two words you really don't want to have associated with your name.
I drove past the scene of the crime today. It made no impression on me at all. Why? The storefront is hidden in the middle of the parking lot.... I drive past that corner three times a day.... it's only a place.... I have no idea why the location has not imprinted itself on my soul, but I'm glad for its absence. There have been field trips to the memorial stones set in the garden next to where Christina-Taylor and I were standing. I've been accompanied by reporters and friends and fellow shootees and their families and the space does not make me sad.
If anything, I feel close to Christina there. I was the last person to remind her that she was loved, and those memories of lying beside her on the sidewalk still make me cry... and probably always will. I can access those moments from anywhere, and I do. Being in front of the Safeway, though, brings me back to before... to watching her sign in to reserve our spot, to calculating the sum of Congress plus Supreme Court plus President, to noticing the photographer and jumping up and down at the thought of having our picture taken with one of those very important and powerful people we were discussing.
It was a magical moment. It lives next to my heart. I try to leave before it makes me too sad, before it, inexorably, inevitably, without my controlling it pours into clutching her hand and begging her not to leave me. I'll see her eyes forever.
Two and a half years, exactly. January 8th to June 8th. Both sunny Saturdays, filled with promise and the mundane.
I'm still not sure what to do with it all.
Exactly two and a half years ago today the world was turned upside down. A nine year old was dead, my Congresswoman's brain was held together by a staffer, and I was riding in a Med-Evac helicopter.
Med-Evac.... Medical Evacuation... those are two words you really don't want to have associated with your name.
I drove past the scene of the crime today. It made no impression on me at all. Why? The storefront is hidden in the middle of the parking lot.... I drive past that corner three times a day.... it's only a place.... I have no idea why the location has not imprinted itself on my soul, but I'm glad for its absence. There have been field trips to the memorial stones set in the garden next to where Christina-Taylor and I were standing. I've been accompanied by reporters and friends and fellow shootees and their families and the space does not make me sad.
If anything, I feel close to Christina there. I was the last person to remind her that she was loved, and those memories of lying beside her on the sidewalk still make me cry... and probably always will. I can access those moments from anywhere, and I do. Being in front of the Safeway, though, brings me back to before... to watching her sign in to reserve our spot, to calculating the sum of Congress plus Supreme Court plus President, to noticing the photographer and jumping up and down at the thought of having our picture taken with one of those very important and powerful people we were discussing.
It was a magical moment. It lives next to my heart. I try to leave before it makes me too sad, before it, inexorably, inevitably, without my controlling it pours into clutching her hand and begging her not to leave me. I'll see her eyes forever.
Two and a half years, exactly. January 8th to June 8th. Both sunny Saturdays, filled with promise and the mundane.
I'm still not sure what to do with it all.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Flora Porn
I love living in the desert Southwest. The dry heat is good on my achy bones. Three hundred and fifty some sunny days per year keeps a smile on my face. Triple digit temperatures make getting into an un-garaged car a challenge, but air conditioning takes the edge off before my flesh begins to sizzle. I've learned to readjust my mental calendar, reserving indoor activities for June and July instead of January and February.
It's the gardening that gets me down. Moving from Marin County, with its Mediterranean climate, was a sure fire way to highlight the differences between soil and dirt. Marin has soil. Tucson has dirt.
Gardeners will tell you, derisively, that dirt is what you find behind your ears. Soil is what nurtures the flora. I get it. I've touched them both and I am emphatic, convinced, certain, decided that this is dirt. Soil has texture that soothes my soul. This stuff feels like stale brown sugar.
When I feel the need to get down and dirty in the garden, I go to my shaded containers and, peeling off my gloves, I stick my fingers way down deep. There aren't any worms; possibly it's too hot for them. There isn't the same luscious smell of an in-ground flower bed. But there are soft clumps of earth, brown and crumbly and rich with nutrients, ready to embed themselves under my fingernails. I sigh every time. It's a sensual event.
We have two planting windows in Zone 10a - two or three weeks around Mother's Day and then again around Labor Day. Beyond that, the soil is too hot or too wet to accept new plants. Containers, however, can be planted anytime. That was the rationale I used as I opened the Van Engelen, Inc Fall 2013 Wholesale Price List for the best Dutch flower bulbs at the best prices.
It's a contractor's catalog, with quantities in the 100's for sale at ridiculously low prices. If I were naturalizing daffodils on my tree lawn in Tiburon again, this is the place I'd go for bulbs. Since I'm thinking about filling five or six containers, instead, my evening with the catalog fell squarely into the flora porn department. I wasn't looking to shop. I was immersing myself in the dream.
What a dream it was. The catalog is blue ink - the verbiage and the line drawings - on white paper. Like all good sensual experiences, you have to use your imagination to enjoy it fully. The illustrations were realistic enough that even TBG could recognize the parrot tulips I planted along the courtyard pathway in Marin. Yes, they were Flaming Parrots, brilliant buttercup-yellow with vibrant red flames. The Viridiflora tulips were truly heavenly blooms and the Triumph Tulips were gorgeous and shapely and radiant.
The first thirty pages of the catalog were just like that. Narcissus and tulips and crocus and iris and hyacinths were distinctively described. Then, I turned to the Allium globes and the writing began to change. Imperious height and planetoid globes are exactly how Little Cuter describes the cuttings MOTG helped her transplant in her own yard this spring.
The Salinas Oriental Hybrid Lily's dark, sultry raspberry-red blossoms left me with an image of Hedy Lamar. Forelock Allium, looking a bit like Tom Hanks' buddy Wilson in Castaway, made me smile, but not as much as the Hair Allium description. Appearing a bit like an alien life form, it launches several green, tentacle-like flowers per stem.... launched flowers make me wonder if I should be running for cover when they are ready to bloom.
Seret gave me a dozen pink peonies when Little Cuter was born; they've been her flower ever since. She inherited some in her own yard from the previous owners, but I'm thinking of sending her some Raspberry Sundae Bareroot Herbaceous Peonies. Could you resist this description? The 1968 bomb-shaped Klehm double has gigantic, 10" pink flowers lightly ringed in gold with a dense center puff of raspberry and softer pink petals that mature to pale whitish-pink. Sweetly fragrant. I don't think that I can.
I was drooling. I was circling the ones I loved, without regard to the zones in which they would flourish. Then, I sighed, looked at the purple and orange desert sunset, and reset my priorities. It did me no good to lust for that which will not grow here. I found an information box that described forcing bulbs; this might be something I could do.
The Oxalis adenophylla makes a lovely...sweet little forced pot, they tell me. There are pages of Hyacinthus that, with some pre-chilling, might work as indoor color next winter. I could use the wine refrigerator to keep them at a consistent, dark, 38-45 degrees Fahrenheit for ten to twleve weeks; I don't drink wine, anyway. I was still doubting my ability to create beauty from bulbs, when I began to notice an addition to the descriptions. Dates began to appear.
1893... 1910... 1922... 1800... 1876... 1789.... 16th century... 1596... 1570... if these bulbs have managed to survive for four or five centuries, they must be robust enough for me to give it a try. the hyacinth bulb in the center container keeps reappearing every spring. Its purple florets are smaller and denser with each passing season, but it keeps coming back. It's sending me a message.
And then, the message got even stronger. The last four pages of the catalog are filled with Amaryllis. Grown in the southern hemisphere, the Christmas Flowering single and double and mini bulbs are on a blooming in the winter schedule, unlike the Dutch Hybrid bulbs whose northern climes make winter blossoming a challenge. Even better, I know that they will work in my containers. The bulbs I bought at Rillito Nursery and Home Depot and which came as gifts in the mail were all placed, unceremoniously, in the courtyard containers last fall. Miraculously, they bloomed all through January and February, and their leaves are still green and flush with nutrients. I'm going to fill the containers with specimen plants and watch them explode into gorgeousness next winter.
It's the least I can do for my Marin deprived, gardener's soul.
*****
For smaller quantities, the firm has another site. Click here to browse.
It's the gardening that gets me down. Moving from Marin County, with its Mediterranean climate, was a sure fire way to highlight the differences between soil and dirt. Marin has soil. Tucson has dirt.
Gardeners will tell you, derisively, that dirt is what you find behind your ears. Soil is what nurtures the flora. I get it. I've touched them both and I am emphatic, convinced, certain, decided that this is dirt. Soil has texture that soothes my soul. This stuff feels like stale brown sugar.
When I feel the need to get down and dirty in the garden, I go to my shaded containers and, peeling off my gloves, I stick my fingers way down deep. There aren't any worms; possibly it's too hot for them. There isn't the same luscious smell of an in-ground flower bed. But there are soft clumps of earth, brown and crumbly and rich with nutrients, ready to embed themselves under my fingernails. I sigh every time. It's a sensual event.
We have two planting windows in Zone 10a - two or three weeks around Mother's Day and then again around Labor Day. Beyond that, the soil is too hot or too wet to accept new plants. Containers, however, can be planted anytime. That was the rationale I used as I opened the Van Engelen, Inc Fall 2013 Wholesale Price List for the best Dutch flower bulbs at the best prices.
It's a contractor's catalog, with quantities in the 100's for sale at ridiculously low prices. If I were naturalizing daffodils on my tree lawn in Tiburon again, this is the place I'd go for bulbs. Since I'm thinking about filling five or six containers, instead, my evening with the catalog fell squarely into the flora porn department. I wasn't looking to shop. I was immersing myself in the dream.
What a dream it was. The catalog is blue ink - the verbiage and the line drawings - on white paper. Like all good sensual experiences, you have to use your imagination to enjoy it fully. The illustrations were realistic enough that even TBG could recognize the parrot tulips I planted along the courtyard pathway in Marin. Yes, they were Flaming Parrots, brilliant buttercup-yellow with vibrant red flames. The Viridiflora tulips were truly heavenly blooms and the Triumph Tulips were gorgeous and shapely and radiant.
The first thirty pages of the catalog were just like that. Narcissus and tulips and crocus and iris and hyacinths were distinctively described. Then, I turned to the Allium globes and the writing began to change. Imperious height and planetoid globes are exactly how Little Cuter describes the cuttings MOTG helped her transplant in her own yard this spring.
The Salinas Oriental Hybrid Lily's dark, sultry raspberry-red blossoms left me with an image of Hedy Lamar. Forelock Allium, looking a bit like Tom Hanks' buddy Wilson in Castaway, made me smile, but not as much as the Hair Allium description. Appearing a bit like an alien life form, it launches several green, tentacle-like flowers per stem.... launched flowers make me wonder if I should be running for cover when they are ready to bloom.
Seret gave me a dozen pink peonies when Little Cuter was born; they've been her flower ever since. She inherited some in her own yard from the previous owners, but I'm thinking of sending her some Raspberry Sundae Bareroot Herbaceous Peonies. Could you resist this description? The 1968 bomb-shaped Klehm double has gigantic, 10" pink flowers lightly ringed in gold with a dense center puff of raspberry and softer pink petals that mature to pale whitish-pink. Sweetly fragrant. I don't think that I can.
I was drooling. I was circling the ones I loved, without regard to the zones in which they would flourish. Then, I sighed, looked at the purple and orange desert sunset, and reset my priorities. It did me no good to lust for that which will not grow here. I found an information box that described forcing bulbs; this might be something I could do.
The Oxalis adenophylla makes a lovely...sweet little forced pot, they tell me. There are pages of Hyacinthus that, with some pre-chilling, might work as indoor color next winter. I could use the wine refrigerator to keep them at a consistent, dark, 38-45 degrees Fahrenheit for ten to twleve weeks; I don't drink wine, anyway. I was still doubting my ability to create beauty from bulbs, when I began to notice an addition to the descriptions. Dates began to appear.
1893... 1910... 1922... 1800... 1876... 1789.... 16th century... 1596... 1570... if these bulbs have managed to survive for four or five centuries, they must be robust enough for me to give it a try. the hyacinth bulb in the center container keeps reappearing every spring. Its purple florets are smaller and denser with each passing season, but it keeps coming back. It's sending me a message.
And then, the message got even stronger. The last four pages of the catalog are filled with Amaryllis. Grown in the southern hemisphere, the Christmas Flowering single and double and mini bulbs are on a blooming in the winter schedule, unlike the Dutch Hybrid bulbs whose northern climes make winter blossoming a challenge. Even better, I know that they will work in my containers. The bulbs I bought at Rillito Nursery and Home Depot and which came as gifts in the mail were all placed, unceremoniously, in the courtyard containers last fall. Miraculously, they bloomed all through January and February, and their leaves are still green and flush with nutrients. I'm going to fill the containers with specimen plants and watch them explode into gorgeousness next winter.
It's the least I can do for my Marin deprived, gardener's soul.
*****
For smaller quantities, the firm has another site. Click here to browse.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
The Nanny State
G'ma doesn't remember that she broke her leg last week. She has no cast, so there's not a visual cue to start her memory churning. She is not in pain when she's not moving, which is most of the time, so there's not a physical cue to remind her. She doesn't notice that anything is different at all.
The problem is, she is not allowed to bear weight on that limb for five more weeks. She can touch her toe to the ground for symmetry and balance, but 99% of her body weight must be borne by her left leg. Should she put too much pressure on the damage leg, the plate and screws securing it to her soft bones will not hold.
She has to grow more bone over the hardware. That thought has not made it into the permanent memory bank. The orange discoloration from the betadine washes has faded. The bandage covering the incision on her thigh is comfortable. There's no reason to fill her with sorrow as she contemplates the failure of yet another body part. For the most part, it's a good thing that she doesn't remember the pain and the fear and the trauma.
On the other hand, she's not safe. Should she stand up, she'll fall down. On so many levels, that would not be a good thing.
I tried to conjoin the broken leg story with the Christina-and-I-were-shot story. That one is embedded, deeply and sadly, and can be called up without too much trouble. I thought that if I got her attention by reminding her that bullets ended our little friend's life and put the hitch in my gitty-up that I could then attach the broken leg saga to the attention she was paying to the gunshot story.
It was a good idea, at first. She was focused, her eyes were riveted on mine, her face was screwed up in sadness. It lasted for a minute or two, and then she wondered why I was hollering at her.
I sighed.
She is sitting on a chair alarm. As long as the staff remembers to leave the main control panel untouched, bells will chime and an alert will sound if she moves her body weight off the plastic pad. It works. We tested it. It doesn't take much to set off the noise, and that's a good thing. The staff love her, and they come quickly to her aid.
The pad moves with her to the wheelchair when she goes for meals and activities. There is always someone around her at those times; I'm not concerned about her safety. She can watch movies in the rec room, do crafts projects at the big table, join Glenna and Rita and Fran for meals in the dining room, and there's always a watchful eye nearby.
On the recliner, the notes I taped to each arm seem to be an effective reminder. DO NOT STAND UP! PUSH THE NECKLACE BUTTON FOR HELP! ... in black marker, in capital letters, angled to catch her attention... it's not much of a style statement, but it's doing the job.
My worries are about the bed. We rented a low-rise-hospital-bed. The mattress, yucky plastic now covered with a comfy egg crate topper, isn't too uncomfortable. The twin sheets are smooth percale, remnants of the Cuters' childhoods. Her pillows and blankets are her own, recognizable, familiar, comforting. There's a crash pad on the floor beside the bed frame. The frame itself can be lowered to two inches above the ground. There's not much danger if she rolls off the bed.
But she's not likely to roll off the bed. Instead, she is likely to want to get up for a bathroom break at 4am. She is going to try to extricate herself from the sheets, turning her legs toward the floor, which will be there much sooner than she expects. The bed alarm will ring. The aide will come running. It might not be quick enough to stop her. She could twist or turn or otherwise injure her already compromised self. It's not a pretty picture; it's all that was in my head.
The obvious solution is to put a side rail on the bed. One edge is against the wall, under the window with the sunset view. If there were a rail along the other side of the bed, she'd be unable to get into trouble. I would be able to sleep at night.
The problem is, such a rail is not permitted. The State of Arizona has rules and regulations governing the care of people in institutions like the pod castle, and those rules and regulations specifically prohibit side rails longer than 18". That's the length of your forearm from elbow to fingertips. It's the distance from the head of the bed, past the pillow, to just below G'ma's chin. It will make her feel like she's in jail when she opens her eyes and it won't keep her in bed. It's not even long enough to be useful as a handrail to sit up.
The rental company won't leave one longer than 18". The pod castle administrator won't let me install one longer than 18". The visiting nurse tells me the same thing. G'ma is as safe as the law allows.
That's not very comforting. I contemplated sleeping on the floor next to her, until I admitted that at 61, with my own, very valid, aches and pains, I could believe TBG's reassurances that the trained professionals will be there to assist her.
At a certain point, I have to let go. I have to trust the caregivers to be just that. This is exactly the situation for which she is paying her rent. She needs assistance now, more assistance and safe-guarding than she has ever needed before. That is why she is living there and I have to take two deep breaths. I did. I swam, I ate, and then I realized that my anger was misplaced.
I can call the doctor and ask him to prescribe a longer rail for G'ma until she is able to safely put weight on her leg. Even if he won't, I'm a little less anxious now that the first few nights have gone so smoothly. I laugh at myself, remembering that every snort and sniffle coming from Big Cuter's tiny little self in the cradle at the foot of our bed sent me shooting upright, bolting from the covers, for the first few nights he was home. I thought then, and I am thinking now, that there is a way to keep them free from harm. Silly me.
She's happier and more alert with every passing hour. She's as connected to the world as she was before the surgery, and she's as snarky as ever. I need to relax and let life go on.
Oh, remember that misplaced anger? Here's where it is, right now:
I'm just sayin'....
The problem is, she is not allowed to bear weight on that limb for five more weeks. She can touch her toe to the ground for symmetry and balance, but 99% of her body weight must be borne by her left leg. Should she put too much pressure on the damage leg, the plate and screws securing it to her soft bones will not hold.
She has to grow more bone over the hardware. That thought has not made it into the permanent memory bank. The orange discoloration from the betadine washes has faded. The bandage covering the incision on her thigh is comfortable. There's no reason to fill her with sorrow as she contemplates the failure of yet another body part. For the most part, it's a good thing that she doesn't remember the pain and the fear and the trauma.
On the other hand, she's not safe. Should she stand up, she'll fall down. On so many levels, that would not be a good thing.
I tried to conjoin the broken leg story with the Christina-and-I-were-shot story. That one is embedded, deeply and sadly, and can be called up without too much trouble. I thought that if I got her attention by reminding her that bullets ended our little friend's life and put the hitch in my gitty-up that I could then attach the broken leg saga to the attention she was paying to the gunshot story.
It was a good idea, at first. She was focused, her eyes were riveted on mine, her face was screwed up in sadness. It lasted for a minute or two, and then she wondered why I was hollering at her.
I sighed.
She is sitting on a chair alarm. As long as the staff remembers to leave the main control panel untouched, bells will chime and an alert will sound if she moves her body weight off the plastic pad. It works. We tested it. It doesn't take much to set off the noise, and that's a good thing. The staff love her, and they come quickly to her aid.
The pad moves with her to the wheelchair when she goes for meals and activities. There is always someone around her at those times; I'm not concerned about her safety. She can watch movies in the rec room, do crafts projects at the big table, join Glenna and Rita and Fran for meals in the dining room, and there's always a watchful eye nearby.
On the recliner, the notes I taped to each arm seem to be an effective reminder. DO NOT STAND UP! PUSH THE NECKLACE BUTTON FOR HELP! ... in black marker, in capital letters, angled to catch her attention... it's not much of a style statement, but it's doing the job.
My worries are about the bed. We rented a low-rise-hospital-bed. The mattress, yucky plastic now covered with a comfy egg crate topper, isn't too uncomfortable. The twin sheets are smooth percale, remnants of the Cuters' childhoods. Her pillows and blankets are her own, recognizable, familiar, comforting. There's a crash pad on the floor beside the bed frame. The frame itself can be lowered to two inches above the ground. There's not much danger if she rolls off the bed.
But she's not likely to roll off the bed. Instead, she is likely to want to get up for a bathroom break at 4am. She is going to try to extricate herself from the sheets, turning her legs toward the floor, which will be there much sooner than she expects. The bed alarm will ring. The aide will come running. It might not be quick enough to stop her. She could twist or turn or otherwise injure her already compromised self. It's not a pretty picture; it's all that was in my head.
The obvious solution is to put a side rail on the bed. One edge is against the wall, under the window with the sunset view. If there were a rail along the other side of the bed, she'd be unable to get into trouble. I would be able to sleep at night.
The problem is, such a rail is not permitted. The State of Arizona has rules and regulations governing the care of people in institutions like the pod castle, and those rules and regulations specifically prohibit side rails longer than 18". That's the length of your forearm from elbow to fingertips. It's the distance from the head of the bed, past the pillow, to just below G'ma's chin. It will make her feel like she's in jail when she opens her eyes and it won't keep her in bed. It's not even long enough to be useful as a handrail to sit up.
The rental company won't leave one longer than 18". The pod castle administrator won't let me install one longer than 18". The visiting nurse tells me the same thing. G'ma is as safe as the law allows.
That's not very comforting. I contemplated sleeping on the floor next to her, until I admitted that at 61, with my own, very valid, aches and pains, I could believe TBG's reassurances that the trained professionals will be there to assist her.
At a certain point, I have to let go. I have to trust the caregivers to be just that. This is exactly the situation for which she is paying her rent. She needs assistance now, more assistance and safe-guarding than she has ever needed before. That is why she is living there and I have to take two deep breaths. I did. I swam, I ate, and then I realized that my anger was misplaced.
I can call the doctor and ask him to prescribe a longer rail for G'ma until she is able to safely put weight on her leg. Even if he won't, I'm a little less anxious now that the first few nights have gone so smoothly. I laugh at myself, remembering that every snort and sniffle coming from Big Cuter's tiny little self in the cradle at the foot of our bed sent me shooting upright, bolting from the covers, for the first few nights he was home. I thought then, and I am thinking now, that there is a way to keep them free from harm. Silly me.
She's happier and more alert with every passing hour. She's as connected to the world as she was before the surgery, and she's as snarky as ever. I need to relax and let life go on.
Oh, remember that misplaced anger? Here's where it is, right now:
Okay, Arizona. Explain this to me:
I can bring a loaded, concealed, Glock 9mm, with an extended magazine, into a church, or a bar, or a concert hall.....
but I can't put a side rail on the side of my demented mother's bed to keep her safe.
I'm just sayin'....
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Random Thoughts - The Mom Fell Down Edition
Hospitals are great places to be if you are ill or broken. If you are trying to fix levels of medication in an elderly body, they might not be the perfect venue. No one sleeps in a hospital; there is too much noise, too many lights, too many finger sticks at 4am. No one eats well in a hospital either, even when the food is as delicious as that at UAMC.
Though the transition was difficult, everyone is glad that G'ma is back at the pod-castle. She needs rest and TLC. Both are found in abundance there.
*****
There ought to be a list, handed to every family member upon admission. It should tell you how to solve basic problems. What if the nurse is unnecessarily testy? Who will make the discharge decision? How will that information be communicated to the staff and the family? Who makes the phone call to arrange transportation home? Where do you park when you're picking up the dischargee? Where should compliments be sent?
Facts are crucial to calmness when a loved one is a patient. Though everyone was pleasant and helpful last week, there was often a dearth of information... or, less frequently but with more dire consequences, lots of conflicting information.
Someone ought to be in charge. That someone should be available. I'm just sayin'.....
*****
Keeping the family updated was simply a matter of typing one message with multiple recipients... and then not losing that message in the inbox. It took me a few days to get it all organized, but last night's phone conversation with Big Cuter proved that it was working.
I started in what was, to TBG's ears, the middle of the story. Little did he realize that our son had been following the saga, complete with pictures, on his phone all day long.
*****
There's an alarm on the recliner and an alarm on the bed and, as long as no one messes with the controls, bells go off whenever G'ma shifts her butt. That's the plan, anyway. Like all remote devices, interference from other electronic signals and indifference from the technicians leads to errors, lost signals, frantic daughters.
I had a minor melt-down this morning when I lay on G'ma's newly made bed, got up, and no alarm sounded. It was fixed after I mentioned it, but that didn't leave me feeling confident when I left for Pilates. The staff can make all the promises in the world. The proof is in the details, the execution, the recognition of the issue.
*****
There's no place like home... there's no one who cares as much as family... there's no way I could manage this myself. It's a conundrum.
G'ma said that I shouldn't come back this afternoon if it would interfere with my daily routine. That's been the model under which we've been operating since she moved here, and, for the most part, it has worked well for us.
But this situation is different, and I know it, even if she does not. This time she requires a little bit more monitoring, a little bit more intrusion, a little bit more care. If I'm not there to make sure, little things might slip through the cracks. That was okay when she wasn't in imminent danger.... but now.....
*****
Sleep has been elusive these last ten days. I awoke this morning with a splitting headache, running from my lower jaw to the crown of my head. My teeth were singing to me, after grinding away all night. There are drugs to take to quell the angst, but the angst will be there nonetheless. It's not my usual free-floating-anxiety-attack; I know exactly why I'm stressed.
That knowledge helps me realize that I am not losing my mind. It doesn't make it easier to bear. it just eliminates some of the frills around the edges of the emotions.
*****
Sharing even a little bit of the story is like poking a needle into a balloon which surrounds women my age. After Pilates, talking (okay.. whining) to JannyLou before she began her own session, we found the other three women in the lobby equally engrossed in the story.
This one's father... this one's mother... this is happening to all of us in our own little cirlces of love and distress. Hearing that I am not alone makes it so much easier. Being reassured that I'm not over-reacting, that others would have done the same thing, that others had done the smae thing, that others thought I was doing well.... that's how I'm getting through the days.
The sun came up today and G'ma and I were here to see it. I have to remind myself that that, in and of itself, makes it a good day.
Sometimes that's harder to believe.
Though the transition was difficult, everyone is glad that G'ma is back at the pod-castle. She needs rest and TLC. Both are found in abundance there.
*****
There ought to be a list, handed to every family member upon admission. It should tell you how to solve basic problems. What if the nurse is unnecessarily testy? Who will make the discharge decision? How will that information be communicated to the staff and the family? Who makes the phone call to arrange transportation home? Where do you park when you're picking up the dischargee? Where should compliments be sent?
Facts are crucial to calmness when a loved one is a patient. Though everyone was pleasant and helpful last week, there was often a dearth of information... or, less frequently but with more dire consequences, lots of conflicting information.
Someone ought to be in charge. That someone should be available. I'm just sayin'.....
*****
Keeping the family updated was simply a matter of typing one message with multiple recipients... and then not losing that message in the inbox. It took me a few days to get it all organized, but last night's phone conversation with Big Cuter proved that it was working.
I started in what was, to TBG's ears, the middle of the story. Little did he realize that our son had been following the saga, complete with pictures, on his phone all day long.
*****
There's an alarm on the recliner and an alarm on the bed and, as long as no one messes with the controls, bells go off whenever G'ma shifts her butt. That's the plan, anyway. Like all remote devices, interference from other electronic signals and indifference from the technicians leads to errors, lost signals, frantic daughters.
I had a minor melt-down this morning when I lay on G'ma's newly made bed, got up, and no alarm sounded. It was fixed after I mentioned it, but that didn't leave me feeling confident when I left for Pilates. The staff can make all the promises in the world. The proof is in the details, the execution, the recognition of the issue.
*****
There's no place like home... there's no one who cares as much as family... there's no way I could manage this myself. It's a conundrum.
G'ma said that I shouldn't come back this afternoon if it would interfere with my daily routine. That's been the model under which we've been operating since she moved here, and, for the most part, it has worked well for us.
But this situation is different, and I know it, even if she does not. This time she requires a little bit more monitoring, a little bit more intrusion, a little bit more care. If I'm not there to make sure, little things might slip through the cracks. That was okay when she wasn't in imminent danger.... but now.....
*****
Sleep has been elusive these last ten days. I awoke this morning with a splitting headache, running from my lower jaw to the crown of my head. My teeth were singing to me, after grinding away all night. There are drugs to take to quell the angst, but the angst will be there nonetheless. It's not my usual free-floating-anxiety-attack; I know exactly why I'm stressed.
That knowledge helps me realize that I am not losing my mind. It doesn't make it easier to bear. it just eliminates some of the frills around the edges of the emotions.
*****
Sharing even a little bit of the story is like poking a needle into a balloon which surrounds women my age. After Pilates, talking (okay.. whining) to JannyLou before she began her own session, we found the other three women in the lobby equally engrossed in the story.
This one's father... this one's mother... this is happening to all of us in our own little cirlces of love and distress. Hearing that I am not alone makes it so much easier. Being reassured that I'm not over-reacting, that others would have done the same thing, that others had done the smae thing, that others thought I was doing well.... that's how I'm getting through the days.
The sun came up today and G'ma and I were here to see it. I have to remind myself that that, in and of itself, makes it a good day.
Sometimes that's harder to believe.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
" I'm Back? Where Was I?"
She's home.
Snuggled under the blanket she crewel worked herself, a full bowl of Kisses at her elbow, the tv turned to NCIS because we both agree that Mark Harmon is worth looking at, she is as comfortable as she's going to get.
The staff who've been transferred to another pod-castle within the complex stopped by to hug her and welcome her back. They were worried about her, they were glad to see her up and smiling, they were teary and grateful and G'ma was overwhelmed.
She's not a woman who enjoys being the center of attention. Compliments make her uncomfortable. She recognized none of the huggers and smilers but it didn't make any difference. She was overwhelmed by the emotion, by the warmth, by the love.
I couldn't ask for more.
Well, I could, but I wouldn't get it. I've adjusted my expectations to conform to our reality. No Unhappy Days has been my motto since G'ma moved to the desert's heat from New Jersey's ice storms. It's an easily manageable goal, one that requires chocolate and clean underwear and the occasional grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich... and not much else... until she falls at 5 in the morning and ends up with her big toe next to her ear.
Did I mention that the break was so spectacular, they used it at morning rounds in the Trauma Center? We don't do anything half way in our family.
The hospital was exactly what we needed for almost all the time she was there; her blood levels (note to self: research INR) are bouncing all over the place but can be managed at the pod-castle. It took three days of convincing, but I extricated her from their kind ministrations this afternoon.
She arrived, bewildered, on the low-rise-hospital-bed which will replace her regular bed until she can walk on her own, at exactly 2pm. Change of shift is 2pm. Some plans cannot be made perfect, no matter how hard I try. There was a great deal of confusion, which resulted in frantic calls to the doctor and then a calming reading of notes that explained everything, and then there was peace.
Big Cuter's Marimekko cars and trucks twin sheets are on the bed; she thinks it's ridiculous but I can't stop smiling. An egg crate topper will keep her protected from the plastic, bendable mattress. Her recliner and her night stand have signs reminding her
We were laughing through our tears.
"On your wrist, sweetheart," we managed to gasp.
"I shouldn't push it now, though. You are all here, right?"
Sometimes it's just too sad for words.
We moved the remote control for the television, because she was using it to straighten the recliner chair. Each armrest has the sign. She's sitting on an alarm that will beep if she shifts her buns... as long as no one turns off the receiver from the main control panel. They have to use the round, white and green remote. I fixed it twice this afternoon by turning the main machine off and on again. Yes, there's a note above the equipment. It's not working as a deterrent. I took a Sharpie and wrote "do not use this" with arrows to the main reset button. Even with all of that, I had to grab a tech's hand as she reached for the wrong spot thirty seconds after I finished defacing the machinery. And this is a wonderful facility with kind and caring and competent staff.
There's a leap of faith every time I drive away.
The alarm was fixed and Brother called to welcome her home and then it was time to transfer to the wheelchair and roll in to dinner. Her space was there, right between Glenna and Rita, and their smiles were beatific. Warmed by the glow, I slid G'ma between their welcoming arms.
"Welcome Back! We've missed you! We are so glad to see you!
Her eyes welled up. She didn't know their names or their stories but she knew something more important. She knew that they cared. That, as they say, is priceless.
And so I stood there, smiling, taking it all in, breathing deeply and freely for the first time since last Sunday morning, when I heard this:
"Welcome Back! It's so good to have you here again!"
"I'm back? Where was I?"
I sighed. I shrugged. And then, as I was about to answer, Glenna leaned over, conspiratorially, and said, "Well, then, I'm not going to tell you."
G'ma laughed, recognizing teasing. Glenna and I smiled, recognizing the kindness.
One of the virtues of G'ma's impairment is that the bad stuff gets as lost as the good stuff. Yes, she broke her leg. No, she won't remember. Why remind her? She's back, and she doesn't know she was gone. As long as we can keep her safe, there's no need for her to remember.
Snuggled under the blanket she crewel worked herself, a full bowl of Kisses at her elbow, the tv turned to NCIS because we both agree that Mark Harmon is worth looking at, she is as comfortable as she's going to get.
The staff who've been transferred to another pod-castle within the complex stopped by to hug her and welcome her back. They were worried about her, they were glad to see her up and smiling, they were teary and grateful and G'ma was overwhelmed.
She's not a woman who enjoys being the center of attention. Compliments make her uncomfortable. She recognized none of the huggers and smilers but it didn't make any difference. She was overwhelmed by the emotion, by the warmth, by the love.
I couldn't ask for more.
Well, I could, but I wouldn't get it. I've adjusted my expectations to conform to our reality. No Unhappy Days has been my motto since G'ma moved to the desert's heat from New Jersey's ice storms. It's an easily manageable goal, one that requires chocolate and clean underwear and the occasional grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwich... and not much else... until she falls at 5 in the morning and ends up with her big toe next to her ear.
Did I mention that the break was so spectacular, they used it at morning rounds in the Trauma Center? We don't do anything half way in our family.
The hospital was exactly what we needed for almost all the time she was there; her blood levels (note to self: research INR) are bouncing all over the place but can be managed at the pod-castle. It took three days of convincing, but I extricated her from their kind ministrations this afternoon.
She arrived, bewildered, on the low-rise-hospital-bed which will replace her regular bed until she can walk on her own, at exactly 2pm. Change of shift is 2pm. Some plans cannot be made perfect, no matter how hard I try. There was a great deal of confusion, which resulted in frantic calls to the doctor and then a calming reading of notes that explained everything, and then there was peace.
Big Cuter's Marimekko cars and trucks twin sheets are on the bed; she thinks it's ridiculous but I can't stop smiling. An egg crate topper will keep her protected from the plastic, bendable mattress. Her recliner and her night stand have signs reminding her
DO NOT STAND UP -- PUSH THE WRIST BUTTON FOR HELPShe was doing fine until she looked at the caregiver and asked, "Where the hell's the wrist button?"
We were laughing through our tears.
"On your wrist, sweetheart," we managed to gasp.
"I shouldn't push it now, though. You are all here, right?"
Sometimes it's just too sad for words.
We moved the remote control for the television, because she was using it to straighten the recliner chair. Each armrest has the sign. She's sitting on an alarm that will beep if she shifts her buns... as long as no one turns off the receiver from the main control panel. They have to use the round, white and green remote. I fixed it twice this afternoon by turning the main machine off and on again. Yes, there's a note above the equipment. It's not working as a deterrent. I took a Sharpie and wrote "do not use this" with arrows to the main reset button. Even with all of that, I had to grab a tech's hand as she reached for the wrong spot thirty seconds after I finished defacing the machinery. And this is a wonderful facility with kind and caring and competent staff.
There's a leap of faith every time I drive away.
The alarm was fixed and Brother called to welcome her home and then it was time to transfer to the wheelchair and roll in to dinner. Her space was there, right between Glenna and Rita, and their smiles were beatific. Warmed by the glow, I slid G'ma between their welcoming arms.
"Welcome Back! We've missed you! We are so glad to see you!
Her eyes welled up. She didn't know their names or their stories but she knew something more important. She knew that they cared. That, as they say, is priceless.
And so I stood there, smiling, taking it all in, breathing deeply and freely for the first time since last Sunday morning, when I heard this:
"Welcome Back! It's so good to have you here again!"
"I'm back? Where was I?"
I sighed. I shrugged. And then, as I was about to answer, Glenna leaned over, conspiratorially, and said, "Well, then, I'm not going to tell you."
G'ma laughed, recognizing teasing. Glenna and I smiled, recognizing the kindness.
One of the virtues of G'ma's impairment is that the bad stuff gets as lost as the good stuff. Yes, she broke her leg. No, she won't remember. Why remind her? She's back, and she doesn't know she was gone. As long as we can keep her safe, there's no need for her to remember.
Monday, June 3, 2013
Good Books
Last week I shared the mini-reviews of books I've hated on my Kindle. Today, I'll share some titles I thoroughly enjoyed.
It's a crap shoot, for the most part. I only download freebies, and only the first of a series, and I'm trying to stick to mysteries and thrillers for screen time reading. The authors I know and love are, for the most part, absent from Book Bub and Book Gorilla. I'm choosing to download new selections based on two sentence blurbs. I'm learning to use cover art as a clue, and sometimes it actually works out that a fascinating picture leads to a fascinating novel.... like these:
It's a crap shoot, for the most part. I only download freebies, and only the first of a series, and I'm trying to stick to mysteries and thrillers for screen time reading. The authors I know and love are, for the most part, absent from Book Bub and Book Gorilla. I'm choosing to download new selections based on two sentence blurbs. I'm learning to use cover art as a clue, and sometimes it actually works out that a fascinating picture leads to a fascinating novel.... like these:
*****
Lethal Circuit: Spy Action Adventure
Mystery Thriller (Lars Guignard) This book is all of the things the subtitle lists. A big, strong, ruggedly handsome CIA agent (are there any other kind of CIA agents in novels these days?) searches for his missing/dead father, encountering old flames and terrorists and secret plots along the way. It's the first of a series; I'm actually considering spending a dollar to see how the story unfolds.
The Blasphemer – An Islamic
Thriller (Maya Raines #1) (John Ling)What was it like to be Salman Rushdie? Living under a fatwa, married to a woman who chafes under the restrictions, surrounded by agents who are ambivalent about your worth, supervised by a strong woman, this ripped from the headlines story is well written and thoughtful and might just be worth a further look at the series.
T Jefferson Parker is a prolific author whose library books have accompanied me on many vacations. These three were free from Book Bub and I enjoyed every one of them
- Where Serpents Lie Police on the trail of serial child abusers find themselves entangled up to their hairlines. It's creepy and realistic and kept me on the edge of my seat.
- The Blue Hour (Merci Rayborn) An inside look at being a girl in a boy's world, Merci Rayborn must have appeared in other Parker novels. There are references to relationships gone by, but this works as a stand alone story of love and aging and women in the workplace.
- Silent Joe – The title character is one of my favorite new heroes. He's damaged and whole and empty and full and figuring it all out as he goes along,. There's a sweet love story and a chilling back story presented without embellishment. You want to read this one.
Wired (Douglas E. Richards) Enhanced brain function (think Forbidden Planet) and the key to it all live within a brilliant and beautiful young woman (are there any other kinds in these stories?). Some are out to kill her, some to control her, some to protect her and each and every one of them is wonderful in his or her own normal or perverted way. I was thinking about brain power for a week after finishing this one.
Pushed Too Far (A Thriller) (Ann Voss
Peterson) Another dead girl, brainy female police chief, unhappy underlings, and a community terrorized by a killer. Though verging on the formulaic, the long sentences that manage to keep you interested without losing the original train of thought make this one worth reading.
The Penal Colony (Richard Herley) Pappillon meets Lord of the Flies in this dystopian universe. Criminals, captives on an island off the coast of England, plan an escape under the eye of Big Brother. The group process, the social structure, the individual differences and unlikely friendships move this story from unbelievable to frighteningly real. It will haunt you.
Hope Road (1st John Ray
mystery) (John Barlow) The first of a series I'll read through to the end. This character is multi-layered, unpredictable, complex. Trying to establish himself outside the aura of his gangster family, John Ray is a man I'd like to invite to dinner.
Murder on The Mind (A Jeff Resnick
Mystery) (L L Bartlett) A mystery wrapped in a family drama is sure to capture my attention. I felt as if I were sitting at the dining room table, in the back seat of the car, on the front lawn with these people, waiting for the next shoe to drop. The mystery is almost secondary to the interpersonal complications.
To Speak for the Dead (The Jake
Lassiter Series) (Paul Levine )The medical details are as fascinating as the legal shenanigans in another first-in-a-series. There's an ex-jock, armed forces, big guy taking on the world once again, but there were enough new and surprising developments to make it worthwhile.
The Girl from Long Guyland (Lara
Reznik) She goes to college in 1969, just like I did. She has roommate issues, just like I did. There are fascinating minor characters wandering around the edges of this then-and-now story that moves to Tucson, too. This book had a cheesy cover but the story was certainly worthy of attention.
Rescuing Olivia (Julie Compton) The problem with reading so many of these books, one after the other, is that they tend to bleed together. This is another problem family, damaged boyfriend, friends who protect and need protecting story that is well-written and startling and ultimately disturbing. It followed me around until I replaced it with
The Watcher (The Bigler county
Romantic Thriller Series) (Jo Robertson)The free book people really like pedophiles and molesters and creeps. This one verges on becoming a romance, and then takes a sharp turn back to thrills and chills. The bad guy lurks in the shadows, and I had a great time watching him watch.
The
Big Bend (Gary Showalter) Showalter is one of my favorite
authors, and The Big Bend is no exception. A thriller, a
mystery, a keep-me-safe story that involves explosions and
friendships and middle aged angst, this one is another keeper.
And
then there's Scott Pratt. An Innocent Client (Joe
Dillard Series #1) tells the tale of a lawyer's last client
before he retires for good. He loves his wife and hates his life and
can't believe that an innocent client might actually exist. The
mystery was interesting, the interpersonal relationships were
believable, and I downloaded the second in the series as soon as I
read the last line of the first.
Unfortunately, In Good
Faith (Joe Dillard Series #2 is didactic and slower than
molasses from the freezer. I was sorry that his wife's
diagnosis of breast cancer was upsetting to Joe Dillard, but in depth
analyses of treatment options and breast exams did nothing to advance
the story line. He was educating the reader but he forgot to
entertain at the same time. I left them mid-way through; I was glad to say goodbye.
*****
Now
that I am caught up on the e-books I've downloaded, I will make a
concerted effort to stay up to date on the sidebar, too. I'm
sorry that I've left you with Euripides and Thucydides for so long.
I'm moving on to Aristotle this month.
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