47 years ago today my mom gave me the coolest present; a baby brother! I was in Mrs. Meyer's 4th grade class at Maplewood elementary school. Mom and Dad named him Michael but I chopped that off to "Mikey" in a flash. The timing was perfect for me but I think it must have sucked for Mom and Dad. Buddy was in college, Neanne was in nurse's training, I was 10, David was 6, and Dad was being transferred to a place called Arkansas. Oh yeah, and my parents were 42 years old. That's not such a big deal now but it sure was in 1960.
Our family was friends with a family who had a daughter with Down's Syndrome and I think Mom was worried that Mike would be affected with this form of mental retardation. There wasn't a test to check for it so we rode it out, excited and worried and full of hope. Mom tried to prepare us for what could be ahead but I was just excited about getting a baby.
The day Mikey was born the Good Year blimp landed in the airfield behind our house. What an omen! Our baby was perfect! Mrs. Meyers let me stand up in class and tell all about him.
I don't remember all the particulars now but I really did love that baby. I probably made a pest of myself, trying to help out and feeling grown up.
Of course, Buddy and Neanne's friends were at the house all the time, passing Mike around and acting silly over him. Mike has been a people person from day one but who's to say if it's his personality or a defense mechanism he learned as an infant. Whichever, it works. He has a ready laugh and an easy manner. That's not to say he's a pushover. Far from it. He's the caboose on a highly opinionated and motivated freight train of siblings and if he hadn't had the strength to hold on he might have been left behind. After all, 20 years separates the oldest from the youngest.
I don't know when he went from a tow headed baby in a striped life jacket to the man who manages transportation for the Arkansas Department of Education. Growing up, he entertained me more than any of my toys. I was always terrified that something horrible would happen to him. The day he turned 16 I cried when he drove out of the driveway, convinced I'd seen the last of him. I was 26! Mom told me to get a grip. She'd live through it 5 times already.
And, as usual, Mom was right. Here we all are, able to fight another day.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Have phone will travel
I resent being subjected to private phone conversations in public places. I know I'm not alone in my opinion. Cell phones are an incredible convenience and I love mine as much as the next guy but I try not to let it dominate my life. If my phone rings when I'm at Kroger I ignore it. When I get outside I'll check the caller ID and, depending on who called, I'll return the call when I'm not in a public place. Remember when you didn't know you'd had a phone call until you got home? Remember a time before answering machines when you didn't know you'd had a call while you were out until that person called back? I don't want to make a shift backwards, I just want some sort of cell phone protocol or etiquette to be established.
I have heard the stupidest and most meaningless conversations in Wal-Mart. If you want to visit, bring your friend to the store with you. Don't stand in the check-out line discussing the results of your colonoscopy with a person invisible to the rest of us.
The rudest behavior is exhibited by those who wear those blue tooth things in their ears. They walk the aisles, their hands free, shopping and talking. Until you see the little blue light blinking in their ear you think they're lunatics or schizophrenics, listening to the voices in their heads. What can't wait until you're in your car or outside? If your colonscopy shows signs of disease, I'm sorry. I can be sympathetic but I don't want to hear the gory details or the fear in your voice. I have plenty of that without worrying about you. If the call alerts you of an emergency, hang up and go. You probably don't have time to finish your errands anyway.
As the technology has developed most of us have agreed on certain places where cell phone use is prohibited. We turn our phones off in church services, movie theaters, and business meetings. My county library doesn't allow phone conversations inside but it's more the exception than the rule. It shouldn't even be up for discussion but it's a hot topic in the library world. You wouldn't think of having a loud conversation with an individual so what makes a phone conversation okay? After I had retired from my post as a branch library manager in another county, two men threatened one another with guns over a cell phone conversation. The men were sitting side by side at the public computers when one of them got a call. The one man asked the phone talker to hang up or take it outside and the fight was on. The library staff had to call 911 because the men left the building shouting at one another and making violent threats. The police came and the report was made but the men weren't found. I didn't read anywhere about a library shoot out but they could have taken the fight somewhere else. This example of "phone rage" might be extreme but it's real.
The solution is simple really. Use some common sense and be courteous. You aren't invisible or sound free so don't act like you're the only human on the planet. Regardless of the commercials, none of us are so important that we require constant connection to our "networks."
I have heard the stupidest and most meaningless conversations in Wal-Mart. If you want to visit, bring your friend to the store with you. Don't stand in the check-out line discussing the results of your colonoscopy with a person invisible to the rest of us.
The rudest behavior is exhibited by those who wear those blue tooth things in their ears. They walk the aisles, their hands free, shopping and talking. Until you see the little blue light blinking in their ear you think they're lunatics or schizophrenics, listening to the voices in their heads. What can't wait until you're in your car or outside? If your colonscopy shows signs of disease, I'm sorry. I can be sympathetic but I don't want to hear the gory details or the fear in your voice. I have plenty of that without worrying about you. If the call alerts you of an emergency, hang up and go. You probably don't have time to finish your errands anyway.
As the technology has developed most of us have agreed on certain places where cell phone use is prohibited. We turn our phones off in church services, movie theaters, and business meetings. My county library doesn't allow phone conversations inside but it's more the exception than the rule. It shouldn't even be up for discussion but it's a hot topic in the library world. You wouldn't think of having a loud conversation with an individual so what makes a phone conversation okay? After I had retired from my post as a branch library manager in another county, two men threatened one another with guns over a cell phone conversation. The men were sitting side by side at the public computers when one of them got a call. The one man asked the phone talker to hang up or take it outside and the fight was on. The library staff had to call 911 because the men left the building shouting at one another and making violent threats. The police came and the report was made but the men weren't found. I didn't read anywhere about a library shoot out but they could have taken the fight somewhere else. This example of "phone rage" might be extreme but it's real.
The solution is simple really. Use some common sense and be courteous. You aren't invisible or sound free so don't act like you're the only human on the planet. Regardless of the commercials, none of us are so important that we require constant connection to our "networks."
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Reconditioned
I think I have finally adjusted to unemployment. It took me long enough. But I have to remember that not only did I work, my job was set in a rigid environment. The school day is divided into sections of an hour or 90 minutes. Teachers and kids are conditioned to move at the sound of a nerve shattering bell no less than 12 times a day. Do that for 28 years and you might have trouble free falling through a day too.
I no longer scurry around, keeping myself properly occupied. That's evident by the number of kitty nose prints on my glass storm door and the coffee stains around my chair on the porch. The one constant in my week is the time I volunteer at Garvan Gardens. Otherwise, I am protective of my time. I don't make "set in stone" obligations and don't really like to make plans too far in advance.
Last winter was dreary and I was restless. I was ready to pack it in, ready to move to a bigger place, ready to look for a job. I'll be interested to see if my new skills can get me through the cold weather. My porch is my refuge but the cold drives me inside. Whatever winter brings, I'll be better equipped to deal with it this year.
I no longer scurry around, keeping myself properly occupied. That's evident by the number of kitty nose prints on my glass storm door and the coffee stains around my chair on the porch. The one constant in my week is the time I volunteer at Garvan Gardens. Otherwise, I am protective of my time. I don't make "set in stone" obligations and don't really like to make plans too far in advance.
Last winter was dreary and I was restless. I was ready to pack it in, ready to move to a bigger place, ready to look for a job. I'll be interested to see if my new skills can get me through the cold weather. My porch is my refuge but the cold drives me inside. Whatever winter brings, I'll be better equipped to deal with it this year.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Have book will travel
My name is Barbara and I'm addicted to audio books. I don't leave home without at least one. I often tuck in a second just in case I've miscalculated my time frame or find myself trapped in heavy traffic. If I'm out and about, listening to my book, I panic when the reader says,"We hope you've enjoyed Listening Libraries' audio book, King Con, written and read by Stephen J. Cannell." I barely pop the last CD out of the player when I'm scrambling to insert disk 1 of a new novel into the slot. I'm a "chain listener!" The last book isn't even cold when I'm starting the next one.
I started seriously taking advantage of audio books when I was taking chemo. My hospital stay lasted several days and happened every other week. Chemo wears you out. It's a tiredness that starts somewhere deep inside and permeates through your entire body. Reading has always been my escape from the real world and chemo is as real as it gets. I just didn't have the stamina or concentration skills necessary to hold and read a book. But, audio books gave me exactly what I needed to distract me and deliver me from mind numbing boredom. I could put a disk in a portable CD player, hook up with headphones, and get lost in a story.
Now, years later, my audio books are my constant companions. I never leave home without one. I check them out of the local library most of the time but sometimes I'll buy one if I'm particularly impressed with it. I own 3 of the Harry Potter books on Cd and my goal is to buy all 7. They're pretty expensive so I don't buy them at once. Jim Dale, a British actor, is the reader on each book and he's captivating. Every character has a quality that makes him unique so you can follow conversations between characters without any confusion as to who is saying what and to whom.
I can listen to a book and do just about anything I want to do. I hate cleaning house but I can insert a good mystery into my CD player, put in my ear buds, and whisk through our little place in no time flat. When I get a wild hair to walk for exercise I do the same thing. I can cover a lot of territory while I'm being entertained by any one of my favorite authors. I used to carry my CD player in a cheap fanny pack around my waist but I've discovered that a certain style of Columbia shorts has the perfect pockets for a CD player. Now I just pack the player in a pocket and I'm good to go. From cleaning the bathroom to making a long drive, I'm never without a good book.
I started seriously taking advantage of audio books when I was taking chemo. My hospital stay lasted several days and happened every other week. Chemo wears you out. It's a tiredness that starts somewhere deep inside and permeates through your entire body. Reading has always been my escape from the real world and chemo is as real as it gets. I just didn't have the stamina or concentration skills necessary to hold and read a book. But, audio books gave me exactly what I needed to distract me and deliver me from mind numbing boredom. I could put a disk in a portable CD player, hook up with headphones, and get lost in a story.
Now, years later, my audio books are my constant companions. I never leave home without one. I check them out of the local library most of the time but sometimes I'll buy one if I'm particularly impressed with it. I own 3 of the Harry Potter books on Cd and my goal is to buy all 7. They're pretty expensive so I don't buy them at once. Jim Dale, a British actor, is the reader on each book and he's captivating. Every character has a quality that makes him unique so you can follow conversations between characters without any confusion as to who is saying what and to whom.
I can listen to a book and do just about anything I want to do. I hate cleaning house but I can insert a good mystery into my CD player, put in my ear buds, and whisk through our little place in no time flat. When I get a wild hair to walk for exercise I do the same thing. I can cover a lot of territory while I'm being entertained by any one of my favorite authors. I used to carry my CD player in a cheap fanny pack around my waist but I've discovered that a certain style of Columbia shorts has the perfect pockets for a CD player. Now I just pack the player in a pocket and I'm good to go. From cleaning the bathroom to making a long drive, I'm never without a good book.
Monday, September 10, 2007
A Gathering
On September 1st my parents celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary. This, in and of itself, is a remarkable feat. Add to that the fact that all five of their children, all eight grandchildren, and both great-grandchildren are alive and healthy. Everyone who is old enough to work is employed. Two of us are retired and another one of us will be soon. No one is in jail or suffering from an addiction. We speak to one another regularly. On top of all that, I think we're all pretty cute and I know we're all funny.
Saturday we all gathered at my youngest brother's home to celebrate Mom and Dad and each other. My sister-in-law can entertain our mob at the drop of a hat. Their house is the most centrally located and has the biggest kitchen. We're a "kitchen" family. I didn't inherit the gene that allows me to work in a kitchen with people surrounding me so I'm in awe of anyone who can prepare a meal for our large group and participate in the conversation while stepping around guests who are underfoot and munching on chips and salsa (home-made). This particular sister-in-law, Susie, has been part of our family since she started dating my brother, Mike, when she was 14 or 15 years old and opens her home to us anytime we feel the need to gather.
My family doesn't say a blessing over these feasts but one or two of us will speak from the heart about what we mean to one another. It's usually Buddy because he's oldest and he's not overly sentimental. We can reflect on our good fortune and give thanks for our bounty without crying.
This year I appointed myself as speaker. Because of my tendency to get nervous and ramble I wrote down what I wanted to tell my family and read it aloud as we stood, shoulder to shoulder, in Susie's kitchen. I have included this open letter to my parents and brothers and sister in this post.
Being retired, I have lots of time to think and what I think about most is us, this family. We’re unique is many ways but we have three distinctions that stand out to me.
1. We are all alive and functioning, some better than others, but without assistance.
2. We mostly like each other.
3. We are in contact with one another on a fairly regular basis.
Watch the news, read the papers, talk to friends. We are the exception to the rule if we believe these reports. It doesn’t take a genius to see how blessed we are.
Even when we aggravate one another (that’s our right as siblings), we have a bottom line. We love one anther. It’s unconditional. We’re stuck together with gorilla glue and there’s no escape. None of you could commit an act so heinous that I would quit loving you. I asked Mom, one time, if she’d love me if I killed somebody. Her answer was an emphatic, “Of course I would, but I’d be mad as hell you’d done something that stupid!” That’s unconditional in a nutshell.
I try not to take this gift for granted. All of you have been there for me. I’ve never faced adversity without backup. We’re a well rehearsed ensemble troupe. We all have roles to play in our “life drama” and all of us step up to perform our parts without doubt or hesitation. In 1984, after the removal of my first tumor, Mom and Dad and Neanne, and I were getting into the elevator at the Medical Tower building. We were on our way to Dr. Kyser’s office to hear what my treatment would be. Just as we started to step in, Buddy came through the door and announced, “Circle the wagons! I see Indians!” Can it be any plainer than that? I have thousands of examples and anecdotes that illustrate this reaction to a threat of danger. Our solidarity as a family is our legacy and that legacy is a gift from Mom and Dad. Our unity is no accident. They modeled a lifestyle that didn’t allow anger or negativity to fester. That’s not to say that we have lived a life of “goodness and light” 100% of the time. No one can do that, it’s unrealistic. Instead, when strife reared its ugly head, we dealt with it. No one can hash, rehash, and analyze a topic like a Simmons kid. Mom and Dad allowed for individual differences in each of us, even when we bewildered them with some of our decisions. And somehow, they were able to meld us into a formidable and unshakable union. Good, bad, or indifferent, our circle remains unbroken.
Saturday we all gathered at my youngest brother's home to celebrate Mom and Dad and each other. My sister-in-law can entertain our mob at the drop of a hat. Their house is the most centrally located and has the biggest kitchen. We're a "kitchen" family. I didn't inherit the gene that allows me to work in a kitchen with people surrounding me so I'm in awe of anyone who can prepare a meal for our large group and participate in the conversation while stepping around guests who are underfoot and munching on chips and salsa (home-made). This particular sister-in-law, Susie, has been part of our family since she started dating my brother, Mike, when she was 14 or 15 years old and opens her home to us anytime we feel the need to gather.
My family doesn't say a blessing over these feasts but one or two of us will speak from the heart about what we mean to one another. It's usually Buddy because he's oldest and he's not overly sentimental. We can reflect on our good fortune and give thanks for our bounty without crying.
This year I appointed myself as speaker. Because of my tendency to get nervous and ramble I wrote down what I wanted to tell my family and read it aloud as we stood, shoulder to shoulder, in Susie's kitchen. I have included this open letter to my parents and brothers and sister in this post.
Being retired, I have lots of time to think and what I think about most is us, this family. We’re unique is many ways but we have three distinctions that stand out to me.
1. We are all alive and functioning, some better than others, but without assistance.
2. We mostly like each other.
3. We are in contact with one another on a fairly regular basis.
Watch the news, read the papers, talk to friends. We are the exception to the rule if we believe these reports. It doesn’t take a genius to see how blessed we are.
Even when we aggravate one another (that’s our right as siblings), we have a bottom line. We love one anther. It’s unconditional. We’re stuck together with gorilla glue and there’s no escape. None of you could commit an act so heinous that I would quit loving you. I asked Mom, one time, if she’d love me if I killed somebody. Her answer was an emphatic, “Of course I would, but I’d be mad as hell you’d done something that stupid!” That’s unconditional in a nutshell.
I try not to take this gift for granted. All of you have been there for me. I’ve never faced adversity without backup. We’re a well rehearsed ensemble troupe. We all have roles to play in our “life drama” and all of us step up to perform our parts without doubt or hesitation. In 1984, after the removal of my first tumor, Mom and Dad and Neanne, and I were getting into the elevator at the Medical Tower building. We were on our way to Dr. Kyser’s office to hear what my treatment would be. Just as we started to step in, Buddy came through the door and announced, “Circle the wagons! I see Indians!” Can it be any plainer than that? I have thousands of examples and anecdotes that illustrate this reaction to a threat of danger. Our solidarity as a family is our legacy and that legacy is a gift from Mom and Dad. Our unity is no accident. They modeled a lifestyle that didn’t allow anger or negativity to fester. That’s not to say that we have lived a life of “goodness and light” 100% of the time. No one can do that, it’s unrealistic. Instead, when strife reared its ugly head, we dealt with it. No one can hash, rehash, and analyze a topic like a Simmons kid. Mom and Dad allowed for individual differences in each of us, even when we bewildered them with some of our decisions. And somehow, they were able to meld us into a formidable and unshakable union. Good, bad, or indifferent, our circle remains unbroken.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Smart Vacation Plans
My neighbor is doing a cool thing. She and her daughter and grandchildren are spending their vacation at home. Why is this cool? Because we live in a resort town and don't take advantage of what's here. People come to Hot Springs from all over the country. They play on our lakes, visit our theme park, tour downtown, and pour money into our economy.
I think Denise's plan is a stroke of genius. The grandkids are little so they're going to have fun whatever they do. They don't care if they're in Hot Springs or Florida. As long as they can swim and feed alligators it's all the same to them. Monday they spent the day at the Lake DeGray Beach. Tuesday they went to Magic Springs. They have something planned for everyday, just like you would if you were in an unfamiliar town.
Their lodging is free because Denise owns the condo. A place like this in Florida would cost a fortune, not to mention the price of gas to travel there. Then there's the high cost of eating out every meal. I'm not saying that this "at home" vacation isn't costing her but it's a long way from what it would be somewhere else.
With the high prices we all face now we'd be smart to follow Denise's example and play in our own yards.
I think Denise's plan is a stroke of genius. The grandkids are little so they're going to have fun whatever they do. They don't care if they're in Hot Springs or Florida. As long as they can swim and feed alligators it's all the same to them. Monday they spent the day at the Lake DeGray Beach. Tuesday they went to Magic Springs. They have something planned for everyday, just like you would if you were in an unfamiliar town.
Their lodging is free because Denise owns the condo. A place like this in Florida would cost a fortune, not to mention the price of gas to travel there. Then there's the high cost of eating out every meal. I'm not saying that this "at home" vacation isn't costing her but it's a long way from what it would be somewhere else.
With the high prices we all face now we'd be smart to follow Denise's example and play in our own yards.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Summer time
It is just too beautiful around here to sit at a computer so this blog has been seriously neglected. The computer can't compete with the lake and the activities. Vacationers, landing by the carload, charge the atmosphere with excitement and anticipation of a good time.
The 3rd and 4th of July there were too many boats on the lake to tempt me. I can ride out there any time I want so I'll wait until after this crazy week of traditional revelry is over to putt out on my SeaDoo. There are plenty of other things to keep me busy. Hot Springs is a fun town and there are still lots of things I haven't done or seen. Maybe I'll make a list and tick them off, one by one.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I have lots of heroes and people I look up to but some are more "heroic" than others. The couple that tops the list is my mom and dad, Paul and Ginny Simmons. If they've ever wavered, I haven't noticed. I know they're human and subject to the same mistakes we all make but when it comes to raising their family they're always on target.
Mom and Dad have raised 5 kids to adulthood, actually to senior hood; all but one are over 50. They've been married for 68 years and live in the house we moved into in 1961. We all go there on a regular basis because we like their company. Even the grand kids who can drive stop in to visit and take advantage of their homespun wisdom. Now don't get the impression I'm describing Ma and Pa Kettle, far from it. They're modern thinkers who enjoy good company, good scotch, and a good joke. They can discuss world affairs or a grand kid's latest heartbreak. They don't live in the vacuum so many of our elderly citizens retreat to.
Mom and Dad taught us by example. Kids don't always hear what they are told but they always see what's going on and that's the behavior they'll choose to model. Mom was the MOM and Dad was the DAD and we were the KIDS. Everyone knew their parts and the lines never blurred. Mom and Dad worked as a unit, there was no divide and conquer.........ever.
By watching them we learned solidarity, honesty, compassion, and courage. Racial or economic biases weren't tolerated. They gave us room to develop as individuals. We were never pigeonholed or expected to behave the same but we were expected to behave.
I never feared that they would stop loving me just because I did something stupid or made a bad choice. That's what growing up is about. The path from adolescence to adulthood is a minefield and they helped us maneuver through it. When we stepped on a mine and had to deal with the explosion they were there with sympathy, or wisdom, or a just punishment, if that was what was required. We were expected to learn from these errors and avoid them in the future. Sometimes that happened but sometimes we were doomed to take a second run at it. As you'd expect, a second or third run at the same dumb behavior met with different consequences. Mom and Dad are fair people, but impatient with stupidity.
I think they are amazing people, and not just because they are my parents. They set a standard for dignity and independence we'd all do well to follow. I'd be lying if I said I don't worry about Daddy mowing the yard and Mom going up and down the steps but my admiration for their spirit and courage outweigh my anxiety for their safety. As children they never wrapped us in cotton and they trusted us to make sound decisions. Now it's my turn to give them the same respect and trust.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Shoulda, woulda, coulda
There are four words or expressions that send me into orbit. I'll bet you agree. They are:
1. WHY didn't you .............?
2. You SHOULD .................
3. Here's what you NEED to do.
4. IF I had...............
When used under certain sets of circumstances these four unfinished sentences can make me spontaneously combust. It's not because I'm a sensitive shrinking violet. In fact, it's quite the opposite. We are all guilty of this at one time or another but that doesn't make it less annoying.
First off, if I don't ask what I SHOULD do, I probably don't want your input. Let's say it's cold outside and I'm barefoot. I know I SHOULD put on shoes but if you aren't my Mama, mind your own business. Maybe I like the way the cold grass tickles my toes.
In that same vein, if I'm barefoot outside and I step on a bee or a sticker, don't ask me WHY I didn't have on my shoes. I just didn't, okay? I made the decision to go shoeless and now I'll pay the consequences. You asking me WHY won't change anything.
Don't tell me what I NEED to do, about anything! I probably know that I NEED to do whatever it is, but don't want to. If it isn't threatening my health or yours don't worry about it. Even little kids know what things they NEED to do to survive. A mature adult with many life experiences doesn't want to hear, "You really NEED to drink the spring water from the fountain downtown." This might be true and I might come to that conclusion on my own, but in the mean time, leave it alone.
Then there is IF. I do not like the word IF. Those two little letters can and have toppled governments and families. IF I had bet on horse A instead of horse B I wouldn't have lost the money. IF I hadn't lost I would have won. IF I hadn't changed my bet I would be rich.
On the other hand, IF is an important word, a word that alerts us to consequences. "IF I don't get to the airport I'll miss the plane." "IF I walk into moving traffic I will be killed by a speeding motorist."
Listen to yourself. Try not to be one of the "shoulda, woulda, coulda people."
1. WHY didn't you .............?
2. You SHOULD .................
3. Here's what you NEED to do.
4. IF I had...............
When used under certain sets of circumstances these four unfinished sentences can make me spontaneously combust. It's not because I'm a sensitive shrinking violet. In fact, it's quite the opposite. We are all guilty of this at one time or another but that doesn't make it less annoying.
First off, if I don't ask what I SHOULD do, I probably don't want your input. Let's say it's cold outside and I'm barefoot. I know I SHOULD put on shoes but if you aren't my Mama, mind your own business. Maybe I like the way the cold grass tickles my toes.
In that same vein, if I'm barefoot outside and I step on a bee or a sticker, don't ask me WHY I didn't have on my shoes. I just didn't, okay? I made the decision to go shoeless and now I'll pay the consequences. You asking me WHY won't change anything.
Don't tell me what I NEED to do, about anything! I probably know that I NEED to do whatever it is, but don't want to. If it isn't threatening my health or yours don't worry about it. Even little kids know what things they NEED to do to survive. A mature adult with many life experiences doesn't want to hear, "You really NEED to drink the spring water from the fountain downtown." This might be true and I might come to that conclusion on my own, but in the mean time, leave it alone.
Then there is IF. I do not like the word IF. Those two little letters can and have toppled governments and families. IF I had bet on horse A instead of horse B I wouldn't have lost the money. IF I hadn't lost I would have won. IF I hadn't changed my bet I would be rich.
On the other hand, IF is an important word, a word that alerts us to consequences. "IF I don't get to the airport I'll miss the plane." "IF I walk into moving traffic I will be killed by a speeding motorist."
Listen to yourself. Try not to be one of the "shoulda, woulda, coulda people."
Meet Pete
Meet Pete. He's my cat. Pete is a Manx. He's bob tailed and his back legs are a little longer than his front legs so he looks like his back end is jacked up. That is a normal characteristic of a Manx cat.
I was going to make him an indoor cat but that didn't last long. It was clear that I wasn't going to "make" him anything he didn't want to be. A small space and an athletic, determined cat is a recipe for disaster. I've managed to make every pet I've owned needy and neurotic but Pete just won't buy into that. My job is to feed and water him, open the door, and pet him IF he wants to be petted. Otherwise, back off!
This is actually a good thing. While he's curious about visitors, he doesn't harass them. He likes men better than women and after his curiosity is satisfied he goes on his way. We've all tried to visit around an obnoxious, insistent cat so I'm glad Pete is like he is.
Unlike Levi, who had to have constant monitoring and attention, Pete just wants to be left to
his own entertainment. It's almost too easy. If he's in the condo when I leave, fine. If he isn't, fine. He's usually on a porch chair when I get home, ready to go in for a nibble and a nap.
I sit on my porch and watch him making his rounds. His nosiness gets him in trouble sometimes. One day he came home smelling just awful. When I got close enough to him I recognized skunk scent. Horrified, I locked him in the bathroom until I could go buy something to bath him. Petco told me to go buy tomato juice and drown him in it. I put this unhappy cat in the bathtub and poured a couple of cans of tomato juice into his fur. By the time we were done the bathroom looked like a CSI murder scene. I had tomato juice on all four walls, the floor, the mirror, and me. It took longer to clean up the mess than it did to clean up the cat.
Pete is a good hunter so I keep a bell around his neck. In spite of that he's brought me a squirrel and several wrens. This makes me sad but I can't fault a guy for doing what he's engineered to do. Right now I'm watching him very closely because we have a couple of bluebird houses with eggs on the nests. One of the boxes with eggs is on a light pole out front and he'll climb up and sit on the box. The daddy bluebird guards his nest and divebombs at Pete while Pete swats at him like King Kong swatting at airplanes on the Empire State building. The real danger will come when the babies start trying to fly. I can't sit and watch a bluebird box day and night but I'm making it my business to monitor it as much as I can. Life in the wild is tricky business and Pete is a tricky guy.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Levi
I've resisted writing this since March 19, when I had to have my 14 year old rat terrier, Levi, put to sleep. Lots of times I skip the poignant, "My old dog died," stories in memoirs or essays. They're too painful. Now, here I am, writing one of my own.
Levi was 6 weeks old when I got him. I had to pass a rigid inspection before his owner let me take him. She was the receptionist at our vet's office and I knew she'd be watching me. Headstrong and energetic, I was no match for him. I was under his control in nothing flat and it didn't change for 14 years. I belonged to him, not the other way around.
When I sat, Levi sat on me. When I crocheted he would be on my lap, burrowed under whatever I was making. We slept curled up together, Levi under the covers. I don't know how he kept from suffocating sometimes.
A doggie door in the Benton house and a fenced yard gave Levi the freedom to come and go at his own pace. We didn't have to do the leash thing or let him in or out. It was easy. Then we moved to the lake and I became his virtual slave. He actually adjusted quite well to condo living. His advanced age gave us the advantage. He wasn't too interested in exploration and didn't fight his leash. We walked miles and miles around our complex several times a day and he became the doggie darling of our neighbors. But dog walking is very time consuming and I had to factor in that time when I had to be somewhere. I couldn't leave him alone too long or he'd set up a howl that was annoying and embarrassing. We live on top of one another over here and a yapping dog can drive sane people to violence.
So, I couldn't leave him here alone when I went to work. Every morning I drove Levi to Benton and dropped him off at Mom and Dad's. Then, every afternoon I stopped by and picked him up. Yeah, it was doggy daycare with Mawmaw and Pawpaw. Thank goodness they could do it because I don't know how we'd have managed otherwise.
I quit working in July and that helped. I made sure I wasn't gone too long at a time and he slept more hours than he was awake. His health steadily declined until he wasn't even Levi anymore but we agreed that as long as he wasn't in obvious pain we'd let nature take its course.
Sunday, March 18, was D-day. We don't know what really happened but it was terrible and we knew it was over. Being Sunday made things a bit more complicated. Our vet's office was closed and I really wanted her to take care of him. He'd never seen another doctor and I couldn't let a stranger do something this important. I called my niece, a vet in North Carolina, for advice. She told me I could give him a little of my pain medicine to make him more comfortable and get us through the rest of the day and night. She assured me that putting him to sleep was my only alternative if he didn't die in the night. Monday morning Levi made his last trip to Benton. It was a long ride home without him but I took comfort in the fact that he'd had a very good run.
I miss him like crazy.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
And the winner is....
My boy Blake didn't win American Idol but his career as a singer and entertainer is launched. After a two hour marathon of songs and commercials Ryan Seacrest announced the winner. Jordin Sparks, a long legged, dark eyed beauty from Arizona was officially named American Idol for 2007. Blake was a gracious "loser" but we haven't seen the last of him. The American Idol phenomenon has jump started lots of careers in a field where it's tough to get a break. I expect he'll have a CD on the market before the end of the year and I'll be there to buy it.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The good life
I've been retired since July 17, 2006 and my life is a whirlwind. It took me a little while to get the hang of it but I've discovered the secret to adapting to freedom. Leisure time isn't leisurely. This might be an arguable point to an average working stiff so I'll explain what I mean.
I'm the half of the couple who lives without time constraints so any errands or mundane chores are mine. Going to the post office, making beds, errands to the court house or marina, they fall to me. I regularly go to Benton to visit Mom and Dad, and there's my volunteer work at Garvan Woodland Gardens. Between these duties I must squeeze in reading novels, working crossword puzzles, trying out new crochet patterns, and discussing world events or literature with Buddy over an Amber Bock. All of the above activities are done on my porch with its incredible view of the lake. Now that it's summer I have the added responsibility of riding my Sea-Doo around the lake, checking out the new construction and exploring coves and inlets.
What's my point? No one's life is ideal but right now, in this moment in time, mine is pretty darn close to it. I don't take these blessings for granted. My parents are alive and lively; a joy to visit with and a weekly highlight for me. The beautiful gardens give me a sense of usefullness and a like minded group of people to interact with on a regular basis. Novels and crossword puzzles were guilty pleasures to be indulged in when the work was done. The same thing with crocheting. Now I can do any or all of them whenever I feel like it. Living close enough to my big brother to share a beer and regularly enjoy one another's company is worth more than I can express.
Over the years Debbie and I discussed and dreamed of the life we have now. We hadn't figured on cancer being our catalyst but it has been. I guess I can call cancer a backwards blessing. If I hadn't gotten sick we might still be slogging through a daily grind, losing sight of what matters. Cancer forced us to assess our priorities and make major life changing decisions. I never expected boats, docks, marinas, windy conditions, and Bass Pro Shop to figure so prominently in our daily lives. We are lucky women and we know it.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Conspiracy theory
During fits of paranoia, I'm convinced that there is a cure for cancer but for reasons known only to it, our government is withholding the information. Think about it, cancer is big business for insurance companies, hospitals, and countless merchandising enterprises. Without breast cancer, how would they unload all those pink ballcaps? Cancer kills enough people every year to make it an effective population decreaser. And its targets are random. We're all affected. No one group can cry foul because cancer is an equal opportunity agent.
I figure insurance companies have the most to lose if cancer becomes curable. I pay over $500.00 a month for health insurance and then have to fight with them about what is covered at any given time. I've been working on getting a PET scan payed for since March 2006. Dollar value? $3,633.00 Peace of mind? Priceless to me, so if I have to pay it, I will.
PET stands for positive emission tomography and it is a nuclear medicine medical imaging technique that produces a three dimensional image or map of functional processes in the body. It detects changes within certain tissues or organs early, often before disease progresses and is important in determining neurological conditions, heart disease, and the spread of cancer. How about that for an idea?!
In a sane world insurance companies would require these scans. I think, in the long run, they'd save money and lives. In the last 11 years I have cost Blue Cross thousands of dollars but I have paid their premium every month since I was 23 years old. That's 33 years and I'm just one person! Do the math. They're still ahead.
I figure insurance companies have the most to lose if cancer becomes curable. I pay over $500.00 a month for health insurance and then have to fight with them about what is covered at any given time. I've been working on getting a PET scan payed for since March 2006. Dollar value? $3,633.00 Peace of mind? Priceless to me, so if I have to pay it, I will.
PET stands for positive emission tomography and it is a nuclear medicine medical imaging technique that produces a three dimensional image or map of functional processes in the body. It detects changes within certain tissues or organs early, often before disease progresses and is important in determining neurological conditions, heart disease, and the spread of cancer. How about that for an idea?!
In a sane world insurance companies would require these scans. I think, in the long run, they'd save money and lives. In the last 11 years I have cost Blue Cross thousands of dollars but I have paid their premium every month since I was 23 years old. That's 33 years and I'm just one person! Do the math. They're still ahead.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Plugged up
My brother, David, teaches 7th grade social studies and wears a flash drive on a lanyard around his neck. His teenage sons can expect to be relieved of cellphones or Ipods or the Internet for punishment. His students present their class projects in Power Point. This is more the norm than the exception in our society today. We're electronic junkies.
David's son, Ryan, is my go to guy for computer maintenance. He troubleshoots, diagnoses, and repairs for me. He can build a new computer from pieces of old ones. While his talent intrigues our family, he isn't that unique in today's high school. By the time I retired from public education in 2002, teachers were scouting the junior high school for the kids who would take care of them electronically when they advanced to high school.
In the early days these guys were equivalent to the boys in the audio-visual club. They were usually shy with a tendency toward obnoxious. What they lacked in people skills they made up for with their understanding of DOS, that old, unwieldy, operating system we used before Windows. As our technology advanced in sophistication, so did our backward geek. Knowledge is power. They had it, we adults didn't. I figure it was the same thing when cars replaced horses and buggies. The young guys, eager for the speed and convenience, got on board while the old ones stood back, bewildered but fascinated.
The computer geek stereotype is evolving at a rapid pace. In less than 20 years they've moved from the backroom of the school library to the mainstream of American education. If we're lucky these kids will grow up and take over our classrooms. When that happens the power paradigm will shift. I depended on students to teach me, to pull me into the electronic age. They had what I needed and I shamelessly took advantage of their expertise. I learned almost everything I know about the Internet from teenagers. Without them I wouldn't be able to do this.
David's son, Ryan, is my go to guy for computer maintenance. He troubleshoots, diagnoses, and repairs for me. He can build a new computer from pieces of old ones. While his talent intrigues our family, he isn't that unique in today's high school. By the time I retired from public education in 2002, teachers were scouting the junior high school for the kids who would take care of them electronically when they advanced to high school.
In the early days these guys were equivalent to the boys in the audio-visual club. They were usually shy with a tendency toward obnoxious. What they lacked in people skills they made up for with their understanding of DOS, that old, unwieldy, operating system we used before Windows. As our technology advanced in sophistication, so did our backward geek. Knowledge is power. They had it, we adults didn't. I figure it was the same thing when cars replaced horses and buggies. The young guys, eager for the speed and convenience, got on board while the old ones stood back, bewildered but fascinated.
The computer geek stereotype is evolving at a rapid pace. In less than 20 years they've moved from the backroom of the school library to the mainstream of American education. If we're lucky these kids will grow up and take over our classrooms. When that happens the power paradigm will shift. I depended on students to teach me, to pull me into the electronic age. They had what I needed and I shamelessly took advantage of their expertise. I learned almost everything I know about the Internet from teenagers. Without them I wouldn't be able to do this.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Who will be the next American Idol?
My name is Barbara and I watch American Idol. I denied it for awhile. It seemed like such a cliche. America watches, and all that. I resisted season after season, then Jennifer Hudson happened. Maybe I should see for myself instead of turning my nose up at the hype and publicity. After all, I liked Ted Mack's Amateur Hour when I was a little kid. Maybe American Idol is a reinvention of that.
I survived the horrible weeks of culling through thousands of America's untalented and disillusioned singers. My horror came, not from cruel comments by the infamous Simon Cowell, but from parents and loved ones who allowed their children to set themselves up for public humiliation on national television. To quote Dr. Phil, "What were they thinking?"
All of that is behind us now and we're almost to the finish line. Last night two singers were voted off and now there are four. Of course, I was voting like mad to save my personal favorite, a young man named Blake who probably annoyed and charmed every teacher he ever had. America agreed with me and he'll advance to next week's show. So far, Blake has been able to do everything they've thrown at him, from Tony Bennett to Bon Jovi. Not only can he sing the songs, he can make them his own. Okay, I'm starstruck. He has a style that really appeals to me.
What is clear to me is that Simon Cowell's critique is the only one the contestants take seriously. They listen politely to Randy and Paula, then turn their bodies toward Simon for the coup d'grace. It's human nature. Which teacher made the biggest impression on you? Which friend do you go to when you REALLY need to hear the truth? That's right. We instinctively gravitate to the person who holds us to the highest standard, even if it's painful. Simon Cowell isn't mean, he's brutally honest. When he says you nailed the song, you nailed it! Those kids reach higher and farther every week. I feel like I'm witnessing evolution. In the beginning these last six had potential but no polish or confidence. The heavy ones have lost weight, the bad outfits have been replaced with style, bad hair has been styled to flatter their faces. It won't matter who actually wins. They've all got star quality and with the exposure they've had and the contacts they've made, they'll be launched into the entertainment arena. It's fun to watch dreams come true so I'll be in front of my TV on Tuesday evenings until we know "who will be be the next American Idol!"
I survived the horrible weeks of culling through thousands of America's untalented and disillusioned singers. My horror came, not from cruel comments by the infamous Simon Cowell, but from parents and loved ones who allowed their children to set themselves up for public humiliation on national television. To quote Dr. Phil, "What were they thinking?"
All of that is behind us now and we're almost to the finish line. Last night two singers were voted off and now there are four. Of course, I was voting like mad to save my personal favorite, a young man named Blake who probably annoyed and charmed every teacher he ever had. America agreed with me and he'll advance to next week's show. So far, Blake has been able to do everything they've thrown at him, from Tony Bennett to Bon Jovi. Not only can he sing the songs, he can make them his own. Okay, I'm starstruck. He has a style that really appeals to me.
What is clear to me is that Simon Cowell's critique is the only one the contestants take seriously. They listen politely to Randy and Paula, then turn their bodies toward Simon for the coup d'grace. It's human nature. Which teacher made the biggest impression on you? Which friend do you go to when you REALLY need to hear the truth? That's right. We instinctively gravitate to the person who holds us to the highest standard, even if it's painful. Simon Cowell isn't mean, he's brutally honest. When he says you nailed the song, you nailed it! Those kids reach higher and farther every week. I feel like I'm witnessing evolution. In the beginning these last six had potential but no polish or confidence. The heavy ones have lost weight, the bad outfits have been replaced with style, bad hair has been styled to flatter their faces. It won't matter who actually wins. They've all got star quality and with the exposure they've had and the contacts they've made, they'll be launched into the entertainment arena. It's fun to watch dreams come true so I'll be in front of my TV on Tuesday evenings until we know "who will be be the next American Idol!"
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Just a swingin'
I believe that children must be encouraged to play and use their imaginations if they are to become well adjusted adults. Mom and Dad didn't entertain us. They played with us when the setting called for it but we were expected to entertain ourselves.
We spent hours outside, imagining the picnic table was a fort, or a boat, or a life raft floating in shark infested waters. Mom would throw a quilt over the clothesline to make us a tent. We played in the sandbox and we watched the student pilots fly in and out of the air college that butted up to our yard. And I had a swing set! I wanted one desperately. I think Mom and Dad had to charge it at Sears but they did what they had to because I wanted it so badly. Daddy and Buddy erected it and set the legs in concrete to keep it from turning over. It was a basic set with two swings and and a seesaw and it was perfect. Buddy taught me how to pump my legs so I could swing myself and I flew for hours. I could sing and think and contemplate the wonders of my little universe. I don't think I'd started school yet when I got it, but I was heartbroken when I had to leave it behind when we moved to Arkansas years later.
The clouds entertained me for hours. I watched them move and change shape. If I stretched my legs straight out and pointed my toes I could even touch them. Ricky Nelson had a popular song on the radio called "Travelin' Man" and I'd learned all the words. It was about a guy who traveled the world and had a different woman in every port. It caught my imagination and it became my swinging song. I sang it constantly.
As I got older I found other uses for my swing set. The cross bar on the legs was a great perch. I climbed up and down on that bar like a gymnast. I learned to hang upside down and turn flips. I loved the topsy turvy perspective hanging upside down gave me. Everything familiar was different from that angle. Maybe that's why I can't look at a problem from only one direction or accept a pat answer.
I'm still a sucker for swings. To me they represent all things positive.
We spent hours outside, imagining the picnic table was a fort, or a boat, or a life raft floating in shark infested waters. Mom would throw a quilt over the clothesline to make us a tent. We played in the sandbox and we watched the student pilots fly in and out of the air college that butted up to our yard. And I had a swing set! I wanted one desperately. I think Mom and Dad had to charge it at Sears but they did what they had to because I wanted it so badly. Daddy and Buddy erected it and set the legs in concrete to keep it from turning over. It was a basic set with two swings and and a seesaw and it was perfect. Buddy taught me how to pump my legs so I could swing myself and I flew for hours. I could sing and think and contemplate the wonders of my little universe. I don't think I'd started school yet when I got it, but I was heartbroken when I had to leave it behind when we moved to Arkansas years later.
The clouds entertained me for hours. I watched them move and change shape. If I stretched my legs straight out and pointed my toes I could even touch them. Ricky Nelson had a popular song on the radio called "Travelin' Man" and I'd learned all the words. It was about a guy who traveled the world and had a different woman in every port. It caught my imagination and it became my swinging song. I sang it constantly.
As I got older I found other uses for my swing set. The cross bar on the legs was a great perch. I climbed up and down on that bar like a gymnast. I learned to hang upside down and turn flips. I loved the topsy turvy perspective hanging upside down gave me. Everything familiar was different from that angle. Maybe that's why I can't look at a problem from only one direction or accept a pat answer.
I'm still a sucker for swings. To me they represent all things positive.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Rest in peace
I've attended more than my fair share of funeral home visitations and services lately. We Americans have sanitized the ritual to the point where you'd never know that grief was the common denominator of the participants. Of course, I'd be appalled if I ever walked into a funeral home and was greeted by wails and hair pulling; but I'm just as appalled by the calm, teary smiles, hugs, handshakes, and barely audible condolences.
The only funeral I ever attended that seemed real was when one of my African-American students died from leukemia at the age of 18. Reggie had been sick for months, doing that yo-yo recovery thing so many cancer patients experience. His family was large with many siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. A gifted athlete and class clown, Reggie was popular with the kids and teachers at school. That added another element of drama. Finally, he was taken to Children's Hospital for the last time. All of us, relatives, teachers, friends, waited for the end. Late one afternoon Reggie's cousin, Michael, burst into the library and yelled, "Reggie's gone!" He was out the door and down the hall before I could catch him, a dark, long limbed blur in an orange jersey, crying uncontrollably. Michael's despair broke my heart as much as losing Reggie.
Several faculty members, including the principal, attended the funeral. It was standing room only in the little Baptist church. Brothers, sisters, cousins, and in-laws sat in the choir section facing the congregation. There was no turning away from all that emotion.
The emotional scale ran the gamut from screams and fainting by Reggie's mother to songs and jubilation for his departure to the heavenly shores of salvation. We were up, then down, an emotional roller coaster. It was noisy and exhausting but, oddly satisfying. I left the church tired and sad and happy. That funeral allowed me to celebrate a happy kid and be grateful for the time I knew him but mourn openly that he died prematurely.
The only funeral I ever attended that seemed real was when one of my African-American students died from leukemia at the age of 18. Reggie had been sick for months, doing that yo-yo recovery thing so many cancer patients experience. His family was large with many siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. A gifted athlete and class clown, Reggie was popular with the kids and teachers at school. That added another element of drama. Finally, he was taken to Children's Hospital for the last time. All of us, relatives, teachers, friends, waited for the end. Late one afternoon Reggie's cousin, Michael, burst into the library and yelled, "Reggie's gone!" He was out the door and down the hall before I could catch him, a dark, long limbed blur in an orange jersey, crying uncontrollably. Michael's despair broke my heart as much as losing Reggie.
Several faculty members, including the principal, attended the funeral. It was standing room only in the little Baptist church. Brothers, sisters, cousins, and in-laws sat in the choir section facing the congregation. There was no turning away from all that emotion.
The emotional scale ran the gamut from screams and fainting by Reggie's mother to songs and jubilation for his departure to the heavenly shores of salvation. We were up, then down, an emotional roller coaster. It was noisy and exhausting but, oddly satisfying. I left the church tired and sad and happy. That funeral allowed me to celebrate a happy kid and be grateful for the time I knew him but mourn openly that he died prematurely.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Monitor and Adjust
I really hate it when my plans for the day get derailed. On Wednesday and Friday mornings I drive golf carts at Garvan Woodland Gardens from 9:00 am to 1:30 pm, period. It's what I do, what I plan for; but not today, not this Wednesday. Today I had to make a flying run to Little Rock to Lenscrafters.
I was heading out to the Garden but before I did, I wanted to clean my glasses. I set my purse on the table and took off my glasses. While I was wiping the lens with the cleaning cloth, the left ear piece broke loose from the frames. There I stood, ear piece in one hand, the lenses in the other. Shit! Without the glasses I couldn't even see how bad it was. Was it unscrewed or was it broken off?
I perched the glasses on my nose with the one good ear piece and headed for Wal-Mart, our modern day fix-all place. The vision center wasn't open yet. Great! I had a deadline here. I knocked on the window and the ladies came out to see what I needed. They told me what I didn't want to hear. The piece was broken off from the frames and it wasn't fixable. Shit!
Okay, I'd just have to get new frames. I head down Central, my glasses hanging on by one ear. The vision center by Kroger isn't open. Okay, I'll go a little farther, down to the mall. Nothing opens in the mall until 10:00 am! What's wrong with everybody? I've done a half day's work by 10:00 in the morning! It doesn't matter anyway. The two girls lounging in the vision center, waiting for the magic moment to open, tell me that they send everything out. It would be 7 to 10 days before I'd get my glasses back. That is unacceptable.
What to do? First, I call Garvan Gardens and tell them I'll be a no show today. I can't do much of anything without my glasses. Then, I remember Lenscrafters. I have a faint recollection about a warranty and figure it's worth a call. Eureka! Not only are my glasses covered by a warranty, my frames are still in stock. All I have to do is go to Little Rock and they'll fix me up.
An hour later I'm striding through Park Plaza Mall, wearing an old pair of prescription sunglasses I found in my glove compartment, looking for Lenscrafters. The young man took one look and knew I was the lady with the broken Anne Klein frames. He's already pulled the replacement frames out and had them ready. I handed over my broken glasses and in 10 minutes or less he handed me a brand new pair. Wow! A quick swipe of my debit card and I'm back in business. I'm already here, the day is shot, might as well shop. Barnes & Noble - Here I come!
I was heading out to the Garden but before I did, I wanted to clean my glasses. I set my purse on the table and took off my glasses. While I was wiping the lens with the cleaning cloth, the left ear piece broke loose from the frames. There I stood, ear piece in one hand, the lenses in the other. Shit! Without the glasses I couldn't even see how bad it was. Was it unscrewed or was it broken off?
I perched the glasses on my nose with the one good ear piece and headed for Wal-Mart, our modern day fix-all place. The vision center wasn't open yet. Great! I had a deadline here. I knocked on the window and the ladies came out to see what I needed. They told me what I didn't want to hear. The piece was broken off from the frames and it wasn't fixable. Shit!
Okay, I'd just have to get new frames. I head down Central, my glasses hanging on by one ear. The vision center by Kroger isn't open. Okay, I'll go a little farther, down to the mall. Nothing opens in the mall until 10:00 am! What's wrong with everybody? I've done a half day's work by 10:00 in the morning! It doesn't matter anyway. The two girls lounging in the vision center, waiting for the magic moment to open, tell me that they send everything out. It would be 7 to 10 days before I'd get my glasses back. That is unacceptable.
What to do? First, I call Garvan Gardens and tell them I'll be a no show today. I can't do much of anything without my glasses. Then, I remember Lenscrafters. I have a faint recollection about a warranty and figure it's worth a call. Eureka! Not only are my glasses covered by a warranty, my frames are still in stock. All I have to do is go to Little Rock and they'll fix me up.
An hour later I'm striding through Park Plaza Mall, wearing an old pair of prescription sunglasses I found in my glove compartment, looking for Lenscrafters. The young man took one look and knew I was the lady with the broken Anne Klein frames. He's already pulled the replacement frames out and had them ready. I handed over my broken glasses and in 10 minutes or less he handed me a brand new pair. Wow! A quick swipe of my debit card and I'm back in business. I'm already here, the day is shot, might as well shop. Barnes & Noble - Here I come!
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Barbie's Battalion of Chemo Fairies
I endured chemo from January 2000 to May 2002. It was a miserable period for me, my family, and my friends. Debbie worked 24/7 to keep me infection free and as healthy as possible. The outpatient thing didn't work for me. Instead, I went to the med center for a week at a time for around the clock IV drips. The rotation was three weeks out, one week in. The boredom of this ritual was more debilitating than the toxins. I had lots of company and tried to keep myself occupied but there's only so much you can do hooked to an IV pole and feeling like road kill.
My family, professional boredom busters, brought me books, games, puzzles, anything to help keep my spirits up. We don't go in for depression so I didn't recognize the signs when it started. I was crying more than usual and I complained to the doctor that maybe my hormones should be checked. She looked at me like I was crazy. Her response? "Of course you're crying! You're depressed. Who wouldn't be?" That's when she prescribed my happy pill and my mood elevated; better living through chemistry.
Better than the Zoloft, Buddy organized Barbie's Battalion of Chemo Fairies. Once again, his pictures flew to my rescue. He developed a series of hilarious, physically imposing fairies who had specific assignments designed to keep me healthy and entertained. His mind went into overdrive as he brought Chemoflage, Chemo No-No, Sue Moe Fokes, Kemo Kazzi, and Chemo Miranda to life. He drew 100 of them; all in color and all with a personal description of her duties in the battalion!
Behind my back, Buddy had Mom and Debbie give him a list of 100 people he could use as sponsors for the fairies. Close friends, work colleagues, special students, and even pets found their names on the fairy cards.
The first ones came in the mail, anonymously, like I wouldn't recognize that style. When that became unwieldy and the fairies took on a life of their own, helpful family members dropped them off in the mailbox. It became the highlight of my days to find a fairy in the mailbox.
The next logical step was to find a place to display them. Naturally, Buddy had that covered too. Debbie and I had a room in the house designated to keeping me healthy. I had a CVL (central venous line) that provided a straight shot into my veins for any medicines or toxic substances. The CVL sight is a breeding ground for infection and infection will kill a chemo patient before cancer will, so it's imperative that this sight be maintained in as sterile environment as possible. Buddy's idea was to station the battalion in this room where so much of the actual fighting took place. With push pins and a yard stick he set to work lining the fairy cards across the wall I faced while Debbie maintained my CVL. This maintenance was daily and a constant concern so I faced the fairies often.
The fairies marched from the mailbox to their battle stations in my war room. Buddy was a man on a mission. Word got out and people dropped in to see the fairies and to see if they'd made the sponsor list. Every week the battalion grew in size and strength; they became part of the family, the landscape of our home. They were in truth my warriors, a tangible expression of the love and support that surrounded me and kept me moving forward. They made me laugh and reminded me of hundreds of reasons I couldn't give up.
My family, professional boredom busters, brought me books, games, puzzles, anything to help keep my spirits up. We don't go in for depression so I didn't recognize the signs when it started. I was crying more than usual and I complained to the doctor that maybe my hormones should be checked. She looked at me like I was crazy. Her response? "Of course you're crying! You're depressed. Who wouldn't be?" That's when she prescribed my happy pill and my mood elevated; better living through chemistry.
Better than the Zoloft, Buddy organized Barbie's Battalion of Chemo Fairies. Once again, his pictures flew to my rescue. He developed a series of hilarious, physically imposing fairies who had specific assignments designed to keep me healthy and entertained. His mind went into overdrive as he brought Chemoflage, Chemo No-No, Sue Moe Fokes, Kemo Kazzi, and Chemo Miranda to life. He drew 100 of them; all in color and all with a personal description of her duties in the battalion!
Behind my back, Buddy had Mom and Debbie give him a list of 100 people he could use as sponsors for the fairies. Close friends, work colleagues, special students, and even pets found their names on the fairy cards.
The first ones came in the mail, anonymously, like I wouldn't recognize that style. When that became unwieldy and the fairies took on a life of their own, helpful family members dropped them off in the mailbox. It became the highlight of my days to find a fairy in the mailbox.
The next logical step was to find a place to display them. Naturally, Buddy had that covered too. Debbie and I had a room in the house designated to keeping me healthy. I had a CVL (central venous line) that provided a straight shot into my veins for any medicines or toxic substances. The CVL sight is a breeding ground for infection and infection will kill a chemo patient before cancer will, so it's imperative that this sight be maintained in as sterile environment as possible. Buddy's idea was to station the battalion in this room where so much of the actual fighting took place. With push pins and a yard stick he set to work lining the fairy cards across the wall I faced while Debbie maintained my CVL. This maintenance was daily and a constant concern so I faced the fairies often.
The fairies marched from the mailbox to their battle stations in my war room. Buddy was a man on a mission. Word got out and people dropped in to see the fairies and to see if they'd made the sponsor list. Every week the battalion grew in size and strength; they became part of the family, the landscape of our home. They were in truth my warriors, a tangible expression of the love and support that surrounded me and kept me moving forward. They made me laugh and reminded me of hundreds of reasons I couldn't give up.
In May 2002 it was determined that all the chemo I'd taken hadn't done a thing to eradicate the cancer in my jaw. I would have the tumor surgically removed the first week in June. For a long time the fairies continued to guard me from the wall in our war room. We'd lost that battle but I was optimistic about the next one.
Five years later my fairies are always with me. I have the originals stored in a box and they live under my bed. I have the book that Buddy put together for me so they are portable and accessible when I need a lift or reminder of how far I've come. He picked out 20 fairies and had them made into a huge poster that hangs on my bedroom wall. The fairies aren't pictures. They are an outward and visible sign of the love and connection I share with my brother.
Monday, April 16, 2007
My Buddy, my pal
If you haven't checked out my brother, Gary's, website, you should. It's http://www.simmonsart.com/. All my life I've watched him draw. It was just what he did, all the time and anywhere. He drew on church bulletins, napkins, scraps of paper, any surface that would hold an image. When he was a teenager I wanted a clown painted on my bedroom wall and Mom let him do it. My friend Roger saw my clown and wanted Dennis the Menace on his wall. His Mom let Buddy, my nickname for Gary, do that for him. When it was time to repaint our bedrooms our Moms taped around the clown and Dennis and didn't paint over them. Buddy painted a naked mermaid mural over the toilet in the bathroom when the rest of the family was gone one weekend. Imagine Jessica Rabbit with a shiny green mermaid tail and naked boobs under the sea with seahorses and tropical fish and bubbles. This will be a theme that repeats itself as he evolves from fledgling artist to the real deal. We left Cahokia in 1961 and I've often wondered how much primer it took for the next residents to cover our family art.
Sometime in the 1950s Dad bought a Jeep-like vehicle similar to our modern SUVs. Buddy was a teenager and he dubbed it the Kidney Buster because it rode rough. By then I guess he'd developed a passion for roadrunners because he painted them all over it. We all loved the roadrunner cartoons and thought riding around in the Kidney Buster was a blast. He even carried the roadrunner theme over to our club house on the lake in southern Illinois. I think there was at least one roadrunner on every pane of glass in the building, inside and out.
So many of my childhood memories are linked to Buddy's drawing. He had a small statue of the Venus de Milo that he used for a model for years. He drew pieces of her over and over, rarely drawing the entire figure. He drew her hands, her eyes, her feet, her breast, the drape, all the while explaining to me who she was, why she was important, where she came from. In 1983 I went to Paris and I visited the Louvre. I walked into the room where the actual Venus de Milo stood and had a melt down. I cried and cried and scared the Japanese tourists who were trying to take her picture. She was so beautiful and I felt so connected to her because Buddy and I had studied her, bit by bit, when I was a little kid.
I'm amazed and delighted on a regular basis by what new and wonderful works are created by his pen or brush, or in many instances, both at once. His style is unique and easily recognizable. He has a fan base and is a local celebrity, respected in the art world. I tease him sometimes about how far he's come from roadrunners and clowns, and how much his mermaid renderings have improved. But the truth is, I am so proud of him. If given the chance to pick a big brother from all the brothers on the planet I'd pick him.
Sometime in the 1950s Dad bought a Jeep-like vehicle similar to our modern SUVs. Buddy was a teenager and he dubbed it the Kidney Buster because it rode rough. By then I guess he'd developed a passion for roadrunners because he painted them all over it. We all loved the roadrunner cartoons and thought riding around in the Kidney Buster was a blast. He even carried the roadrunner theme over to our club house on the lake in southern Illinois. I think there was at least one roadrunner on every pane of glass in the building, inside and out.
So many of my childhood memories are linked to Buddy's drawing. He had a small statue of the Venus de Milo that he used for a model for years. He drew pieces of her over and over, rarely drawing the entire figure. He drew her hands, her eyes, her feet, her breast, the drape, all the while explaining to me who she was, why she was important, where she came from. In 1983 I went to Paris and I visited the Louvre. I walked into the room where the actual Venus de Milo stood and had a melt down. I cried and cried and scared the Japanese tourists who were trying to take her picture. She was so beautiful and I felt so connected to her because Buddy and I had studied her, bit by bit, when I was a little kid.
I'm amazed and delighted on a regular basis by what new and wonderful works are created by his pen or brush, or in many instances, both at once. His style is unique and easily recognizable. He has a fan base and is a local celebrity, respected in the art world. I tease him sometimes about how far he's come from roadrunners and clowns, and how much his mermaid renderings have improved. But the truth is, I am so proud of him. If given the chance to pick a big brother from all the brothers on the planet I'd pick him.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Thinking of you
I'm not a naturally thoughtful or nurturing person. I don't mean I'm thoughtless. I just mean I'm not one of those women who send cards or take casseroles to friends in distress. I might buy the cards of solace or encouragement, I might even buy the ingredients for the casserole, but I lack follow through. I have tried on countless occasions to correct this behavior but improvement is always short lived. I just don't have it.
Over the years I have received countless numbers of these thoughtful gestures. I receive cards on a regular basis from Paige, who just wants me to know I'm in her thoughts. I get phone calls from Caroline and Dottie to say they are thinking about me. My Mom sends notes to people to offer consolation or praise. Barbara Moore shows up with food at the drop of a hat. How are they different from me?
I've concluded that I'm emotionally wired more like a man than a woman. It's not that I don't think about other people, I do. I'm just not good at expressing it. I'm a little self-conscious about approaching people in distress. I say I don't want to intrude but that's lame. I'm just not good at it. I have other talents, I'm not hopeless, but I'll never be the lady on the step with the meat tray or the chicken noodle casserole for the post funeral luncheon. That's just not who I am.
Over the years I have received countless numbers of these thoughtful gestures. I receive cards on a regular basis from Paige, who just wants me to know I'm in her thoughts. I get phone calls from Caroline and Dottie to say they are thinking about me. My Mom sends notes to people to offer consolation or praise. Barbara Moore shows up with food at the drop of a hat. How are they different from me?
I've concluded that I'm emotionally wired more like a man than a woman. It's not that I don't think about other people, I do. I'm just not good at expressing it. I'm a little self-conscious about approaching people in distress. I say I don't want to intrude but that's lame. I'm just not good at it. I have other talents, I'm not hopeless, but I'll never be the lady on the step with the meat tray or the chicken noodle casserole for the post funeral luncheon. That's just not who I am.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
C-O-K-E
I'm a self-confessed word nerd. The way letters join to make words that are then connected into sentences that convey thought is a source of fascination for me. I don't really remember learning to read but I vividly remember the day that the veil was lifted.
I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I have a brother and sister respectively 10 and 9 years older than I am. It was the early 1950s, when Coke was a beverage, not an accessory. The 6.5 ounce bottles cost 5 or 10 cents apiece. A Coke was a treat, like a candy bar or cookies so my brother and sister were required to check with Mom before helping themselves. Back in the dinosaur days, when moms monitored what their children drank and ate, this was a common practice. Being a little kid I didn't drink much Coke. It was loaded with sugar and caffeine and not recommended for children. To keep me from setting up a howl my brother and sister spelled out their request. "Mom? Can we have a C-O-K-E?" If the answer was yes they went to the refrigerator and took out one of the heavy green bottles. Unaware, they were practicing the successful Sesame Street philosophy of teaching: repetition + association = comprehension.
With that word I was launched. My brother, a born teacher, understood the significance of the event and ran with it. There was no holding us back. Every object had a set of corresponding letters and I performed like a trained seal. I give him credit for encouraging me to learn, learn, learn. When I started school I was ahead in the word department. Buddy, my brother, had already taught me the alphabet and how certain combinations of letters made different sounds. I was ready to read and impatiently sailed through the Dick, Jane, Sally, and Spot series.
Fortunately, my family puts a high value on literacy. We were expected to read, for instruction and for pleasure. My parents modeled the behavior by reading to relax before going to sleep at night. Like good children we copied the behavior. I remember begging for 5 more minutes with the light on to finish a page or a chapter. It's such a habit that I feel funny if I go to sleep without reading at least a couple of pages. I don't go anywhere without a book. Words are my connection with the universe.
I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I have a brother and sister respectively 10 and 9 years older than I am. It was the early 1950s, when Coke was a beverage, not an accessory. The 6.5 ounce bottles cost 5 or 10 cents apiece. A Coke was a treat, like a candy bar or cookies so my brother and sister were required to check with Mom before helping themselves. Back in the dinosaur days, when moms monitored what their children drank and ate, this was a common practice. Being a little kid I didn't drink much Coke. It was loaded with sugar and caffeine and not recommended for children. To keep me from setting up a howl my brother and sister spelled out their request. "Mom? Can we have a C-O-K-E?" If the answer was yes they went to the refrigerator and took out one of the heavy green bottles. Unaware, they were practicing the successful Sesame Street philosophy of teaching: repetition + association = comprehension.
With that word I was launched. My brother, a born teacher, understood the significance of the event and ran with it. There was no holding us back. Every object had a set of corresponding letters and I performed like a trained seal. I give him credit for encouraging me to learn, learn, learn. When I started school I was ahead in the word department. Buddy, my brother, had already taught me the alphabet and how certain combinations of letters made different sounds. I was ready to read and impatiently sailed through the Dick, Jane, Sally, and Spot series.
Fortunately, my family puts a high value on literacy. We were expected to read, for instruction and for pleasure. My parents modeled the behavior by reading to relax before going to sleep at night. Like good children we copied the behavior. I remember begging for 5 more minutes with the light on to finish a page or a chapter. It's such a habit that I feel funny if I go to sleep without reading at least a couple of pages. I don't go anywhere without a book. Words are my connection with the universe.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Head over heels
My clumsiness is legendary. I've tried to blame it on chemo but that only works with people I've met since 2000. Everyone else knows better. I walk into walls, trip over curbs and fall up steps. It's not that I'm uncoordinated, at least not in the regular sense. It's because my feet and my head get out of sync. I'm the poster child for "can't walk and chew gum at the same time." I should be accompanied by a laugh track.
For example, one Sunday afternoon I fell into the BFI garbage bin. Debbie and I were working in the yard and I went to get the garbage can. Like all commercial garbage containers, it had wheels and a hinged lid. The lid hung open on the handle side. I tipped the can back to push it into the yard but didn't notice that the lid was dangling right in front of my feet. Talking a blue streak and rolling the can, I marched right up the lid. When the weight distribution was just right the can tipped and I fell in, head first. I never saw it coming but Debbie did. I cussed and thrashed until I got the can to fall on its side. Scrambling out, I looked for Debbie. I heard her before I saw her. With the neck of her t-shirt over her mouth she was trying not to laugh but failing miserably. If I had been hurt she couldn't have helped me. Then I cracked up. I've always been my own best audience and that was a fall worthy of Carol Burnett, one for the archives.
I take solace in the fact that BFI warns its customers not to roll their cans with the lids open. It's printed on the side if I had only stopped to read it.
For example, one Sunday afternoon I fell into the BFI garbage bin. Debbie and I were working in the yard and I went to get the garbage can. Like all commercial garbage containers, it had wheels and a hinged lid. The lid hung open on the handle side. I tipped the can back to push it into the yard but didn't notice that the lid was dangling right in front of my feet. Talking a blue streak and rolling the can, I marched right up the lid. When the weight distribution was just right the can tipped and I fell in, head first. I never saw it coming but Debbie did. I cussed and thrashed until I got the can to fall on its side. Scrambling out, I looked for Debbie. I heard her before I saw her. With the neck of her t-shirt over her mouth she was trying not to laugh but failing miserably. If I had been hurt she couldn't have helped me. Then I cracked up. I've always been my own best audience and that was a fall worthy of Carol Burnett, one for the archives.
I take solace in the fact that BFI warns its customers not to roll their cans with the lids open. It's printed on the side if I had only stopped to read it.
Monday, April 2, 2007
It was just my imagination
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The lake is hypnotic. I've been here since 2005 and I can't stop looking at it. I wait for the new to wear off, but it doesn't. I go to the kitchen, intent on some task, and realize I'm standing at the door, staring outside. I sit down to watch television but wind up with my back to it, gazing out the window. I get up early so I can watch the sun rise and don't go to bed until I find the moon, shining off the water. Seasons and the weather conditions don't matter. Each one only adds to the magic. From minute to minute, the surface changes. Fog creates a surreal atmosphere. Viking ships with huge, square sails come into sight as the fog lifts. Dragons, with wings spread and necks stretched, soar over the water and break out of the fog. Fishing boats battle the wind and rain as they fight to stay upright, their sails soaked and battered. Young couples in love, dressed in turn of the 20th century costumes, row across the glassy surface to an island where they spread a plaid blanket, unload their split oak picnic baskets, and flirt outrageously but never step out of bounds. I'm 17 and fearless, skiing behind a chartreuse metal flake speed boat with a Chevy engine, daring the driver to go faster as I jump the wake and show off for my friends. I don't want to miss anything so I watch.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Tiptoe Through the Tulips
I wish I'd paid more attention to my science classes in school. If I had, I wouldn't have let both of the obese guests sit on the backseat together. Somehow, one of them would have had to squeeze in up front with me. But we all know about hind sight.
It's tulip time at the Garden and we had a steady stream of visitors Saturday morning in spite of the sporadic rain showers. The rain had knocked off many of the tulip blossoms and parts of the path were muddy. Volunteer cart drivers were instructed to run an alternate path to avoid the long brick hill that is slippery when it's wet. I ride my brakes down this hill on a dry, sunny day so I was glad to skip it. There are only two other inclines and I've never had trouble going up either, even when the ground is damp, until Saturday.
It's tulip time at the Garden and we had a steady stream of visitors Saturday morning in spite of the sporadic rain showers. The rain had knocked off many of the tulip blossoms and parts of the path were muddy. Volunteer cart drivers were instructed to run an alternate path to avoid the long brick hill that is slippery when it's wet. I ride my brakes down this hill on a dry, sunny day so I was glad to skip it. There are only two other inclines and I've never had trouble going up either, even when the ground is damp, until Saturday.
Physics being what it is you can imagine what happened when I started up the hill with all the weight in the back of the cart. Granted, my passengers were very large but I had driven this route dozens of times with heavy guests with no problems. This time proved to be the exception. As I started up the hill both front wheels raised off the ground and we began to slip sideways and backwards. I put both feet on the brake. I felt the cart not only slide, but start to tip. Maybe a little louder than necessary I declared, "We've got a big problem!" This was a gross understatement given the circumstances. In the nick of time, the couple scrambled off the cart. The wheels fell back to the ground and the cart stopped sliding. Embarrassed, we took a few seconds to consider the gravity of our situation, pun intended. We assured one another that all were safe and I drove several yards up the hill while the riders walked. It was hard for them. If they'd been able to walk they wouldn't have been riding. When they reached me they climbed back onto the backseat and we continued our ride. I knew the rest of the path was level so I didn't see any reason to redistribute the weight at that point.
Finally, we looped back around to the visitor center. We politely bid one another good-bye. They went one way and I went another. None of us commented on our close call. I watched them lumber away, thinking how bear like they walked, how uncomfortable they looked.
Next time I see fat people paying for a cart ride, I'm heading for the bathroom.
We are family
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I have been blessed with an inordinate amount of good luck. It scares me sometimes. My Mom and Dad are still with us and continue to live in their own home about 30 minutes away from me. My only sister lives an hour away, my youngest brother and his family are 30 minutes up the road, and two of my brothers live right here in Hot Springs. More amazing than anything....we get along. I don't mean it's a constant love fest. After all, we're brothers and sisters. But in the grand scheme of things it is good.
I'm surprised by the number of people I meet who have no contact with siblings or parents. It's natural to experience irritations and disappointments from family members but that's no reason to shut them out. If anything, the opposite should be true. All people are flawed but when those people share the same DNA allowances have to be made. The five of us don't agree on everything but that's beside the point. We shared the same womb and we're stuck with each other. No one else can make that claim. That fact alone makes us unique in the universe.
While I might have entertained a few fantasies about being an only child when I was little, I wouldn't trade one of my siblings. Our ages span 20 years so our parents accumulated the wisdom of the ages. They were and still are, a cool headed and united pair. They raised us as a team and taught us to look out for one another. We're still doing it and I expect we always will.
I'm surprised by the number of people I meet who have no contact with siblings or parents. It's natural to experience irritations and disappointments from family members but that's no reason to shut them out. If anything, the opposite should be true. All people are flawed but when those people share the same DNA allowances have to be made. The five of us don't agree on everything but that's beside the point. We shared the same womb and we're stuck with each other. No one else can make that claim. That fact alone makes us unique in the universe.
While I might have entertained a few fantasies about being an only child when I was little, I wouldn't trade one of my siblings. Our ages span 20 years so our parents accumulated the wisdom of the ages. They were and still are, a cool headed and united pair. They raised us as a team and taught us to look out for one another. We're still doing it and I expect we always will.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Dream Boat
Well, she's off. Debbie's new boat arrived Thursday and I haven't really seen her since. Of course, I expected that. This is her dream come true. She finally has a boat that's long enough, wide enough, deep enough, and powerful enough to go anywhere on the lake. It's a fishing boat, ordered to her specifications. That was an indulgence for both of us. We're the "take it off the lot" kind of people, not the "I want it with this and this and this" kind of people.
I don't know anyone who deserves a new boat more than Debbie. She has patiently made do with a boat that was technically too small for our lake and too old to be consistently reliable. Since she fishes alone most of the time it worried me, especially in January when it was 30 degrees. But she's good at maintaining motors and such so she just chugged along until we could see ourselves clear to buy her dream boat. That was the deal we made last summer. First we'd buy my jet ski, then we'd buy her boat.
Over the years we've owned boats and fished in various lakes around the state but living on the lake and walking to your boat is so different. We've owned leaky boats and boats with worn out motors that cost more to keep running than they were worth. We had a 10 foot aluminum boat and trolling motor that we would lift into the bed of Debbie's truck. We'd load an ice chest and everything we'd need for the day and drive an hour or more to fish for bream. Then we'd drive another hour or more back home, lift the boat out of the truck, unload and put away whatever we'd taken with us, clean the fish (if there were any), and fall into bed exhausted. It was fun but hard work and we were young and strong.
I like to fish sometimes. Debbie loves to fish all the time. I just wish I could describe how it feels to watch her glide off into the sunrise, standing behind the center console of her beautiful 18 foot long aluminum boat with the 90 horsepower Yamaha motor. It is truly a thing of beauty.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Good News!
It's another beautiful day in the neighborhood. The operation Tuesday went well and I'm healing fast. I have one long incision down the right side of my neck and one straight across the front, a la Frankenstein. My doctor sews well so the stitches are straight and even. Tuesday morning they'll come out and I'll be on my way. I expected to have trouble talking and eating, at least for awhile, but the opposite has been true. As a matter of fact, I think my voice is clearer than it was before. Go figure. I'll take improvement wherever it presents itself.
I would love to report that these tumors won't recur but that would be unrealistic. We don't know what causes them, why my body produces these anomalies. We do know, however, that if we are vigilant and proactive we can contain them. I use the pronoun we because it's a team sport. My doctor, my family, my friends, and I work together to keep me cancer free. It's a formula that has worked since 1984.
I would love to report that these tumors won't recur but that would be unrealistic. We don't know what causes them, why my body produces these anomalies. We do know, however, that if we are vigilant and proactive we can contain them. I use the pronoun we because it's a team sport. My doctor, my family, my friends, and I work together to keep me cancer free. It's a formula that has worked since 1984.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Why I'm Still Standing
Sometimes you're the windshield, and sometimes you're the bug. That's not original but it fits. At the moment I have bug status. I know it's temporary but it still sucks. I had my routine CT scan Thursday morning and my routine checkup with Dr. Suen Thursday afternoon. My weight's up, my blood pressure is good, and I'm on the verge of being cocky when Dr. Suen goes to look at the scan. I resume my crossword puzzle and wait....and wait....and wait. UH-OH, he's been gone too long and that's not a good thing. He and I have danced this dance so often I know what's coming. He's seen something he doesn't like.
When he re-enters the room Dr. Suen glides to the stool in front of my chair and lands gracefully, reaching with one hand to feel the front of my neck. I think of the way the Canadian geese fly down and settle on the lake in one fluid motion, feet first. There are two little tumors on the cartilage of my larynx and one tiny one below my right ear. They'll be easy to remove and we need to do it right away. It's not so much a sense of urgency as it is a need to perform a task. That's why I see him so often, to stay on top of these pesky, relentless tumors. Otherwise, they take on a life of their own and I've had all of that I want.
So tomorrow afternoon my oldest brother, Gary, will drive me to the hospital and play the waiting game while I juice up on the "good drugs." But, tonight I'll stay up late, drinking water and eating chocolate, because it might be awhile before I can do either.
When he re-enters the room Dr. Suen glides to the stool in front of my chair and lands gracefully, reaching with one hand to feel the front of my neck. I think of the way the Canadian geese fly down and settle on the lake in one fluid motion, feet first. There are two little tumors on the cartilage of my larynx and one tiny one below my right ear. They'll be easy to remove and we need to do it right away. It's not so much a sense of urgency as it is a need to perform a task. That's why I see him so often, to stay on top of these pesky, relentless tumors. Otherwise, they take on a life of their own and I've had all of that I want.
So tomorrow afternoon my oldest brother, Gary, will drive me to the hospital and play the waiting game while I juice up on the "good drugs." But, tonight I'll stay up late, drinking water and eating chocolate, because it might be awhile before I can do either.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Dancing with Jesus
We rejoice in the fact that Dollie “Faye” Porter of Benton is now dancing with Jesus and no longer suffering from brain cancer.
What a send-off! Can't you just picture it? I'll bet Buddy Hollie and Elvis are providing the music. I didn't know Faye but that one sentence tells me who she was. Obituaries should be tributes, not statements of fact. The facts are important but we obituary readers need more of a story. In one sentence I know Faye liked to dance, was a Christian, and had brain cancer. That sentence could launch a novel, a screenplay. Anne Tyler should write the book.
If I ever need to write an obituary I'm going to remember to put a little life into it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Ride, Sally, Ride!
I get the biggest kick out of driving visitors through Garvan Gardens in a golf cart. They're all so excited about being there and their attitudes are contagious. And of course, I'm a sucker for an audience. I officially volunteer on Friday mornings but I can't stay away other times. I walk the park on those days, looking for new flowers and interesting things to point out to my cart riding guests. The history of the garden is fascinating and I like to share that. It's a work in progress and I try to keep up with new and future developments. I take my job personally. Visitors pay an $8.00 admission and an additional $6.00 to ride. It's my responsibility to give them their money's worth. Last Friday I must have been a little too convincing. Twice I was offered a $5.00 tip when we got back to the visitor center. While that's gratifying, it's not good manners to accept the tips. Instead I put the money in the donation box. It hurts a little but it must be done.
My favorite group last week was three elderly ladies from New Hampshire. It was -3 degrees at their homes. It was about 68 degrees here. A sweater or windbreaker was all the wrap needed. They were giddy! They giggled and laughed and made jokes the whole time we were out. When I drive guests from other parts of the country I learn about their horticulture and climate. Camellias were a complete marvel to the New Englanders. Apparently they can't survive the New England cold.
The couple from New Mexico told me about alligator pines. The bark looks like alligator hide, hence the name. They also mentioned pinons and a couple other varieties of pine from their state. I didn't realize so many types existed. To me a pine tree is a pine tree.
I'm very excited about what's coming. Every time I'm at the garden the tulips are a little taller. Some of them are budding and a very few have opened. I might have to go every day so I don't miss anything. I want to see 93,000 blooming tulips. It will be splendid!
Friday, March 9, 2007
Sold!
When you downsize from 1800 square feet to 640 things have to go. Choices have to be made. Debbie is a collector so the house resembled a well appointed Cracker Barrel. We both had heirlooms that would need to be redistributed to family members. This was not easy. We faced 20 years worth of joint accumulation. We started by prioritizing.
No matter what, I was taking my artwork. I have a good collection of my oldest brother's work and it was going with me, period. (Check him out at http://www.simmonsart.com/) Anything my dad built for me would come with me. We brought Debbie's antique iron bed. We don't have any idea how old it is but it takes two people to lift the headboard. My computer, an oak bookshelf, and a couple of small tables made the cut.
We were going to have a yard sale but there was too much good stuff so Debbie called an auctioneer. We had to be absolutely certain of what we were selling because once we signed that contract it didn't belong to us anymore. It was weird to see our history spread out on shelves and displayed like what it was, merchandise. Never mind that we'd bought much of it the way we were selling it. It had been ours and now it would belong to someone else.
Auction day I stayed home. I didn't have the guts to watch. I knew once it was gone I wouldn't miss it but I didn't want to watch people loading their trucks with my former possessions.
Minimization suits us. Before I buy anything I have to think, "Where will I put it?" If the answer is "I don't know" I don't buy it, no matter how cute it is. We have our knick knacks, things we're sentimental about, but they aren't the focus. Our windows provide our favorite decoration, a view of the lake.
No matter what, I was taking my artwork. I have a good collection of my oldest brother's work and it was going with me, period. (Check him out at http://www.simmonsart.com/) Anything my dad built for me would come with me. We brought Debbie's antique iron bed. We don't have any idea how old it is but it takes two people to lift the headboard. My computer, an oak bookshelf, and a couple of small tables made the cut.
We were going to have a yard sale but there was too much good stuff so Debbie called an auctioneer. We had to be absolutely certain of what we were selling because once we signed that contract it didn't belong to us anymore. It was weird to see our history spread out on shelves and displayed like what it was, merchandise. Never mind that we'd bought much of it the way we were selling it. It had been ours and now it would belong to someone else.
Auction day I stayed home. I didn't have the guts to watch. I knew once it was gone I wouldn't miss it but I didn't want to watch people loading their trucks with my former possessions.
Minimization suits us. Before I buy anything I have to think, "Where will I put it?" If the answer is "I don't know" I don't buy it, no matter how cute it is. We have our knick knacks, things we're sentimental about, but they aren't the focus. Our windows provide our favorite decoration, a view of the lake.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Of Mice and Men
When Debbie and I bought the condo in Hot Springs we had a five year plan. It would be our weekend getaway and vacation place. After five years we would sell our house in Benton and move to the lake. Well, we all know about the best laid plans of mice and men. We fell in love with everything about it. The tiny space, about 640 square feet, challenged us to find just the right balance of furniture placement for maximum utility. It was like decorating a doll house.
As spring gave way to summer we met the other owners. It was a perpetual party every weekend. Fish frys sprang up from nowhere, each of us contributing something to the meal. We fished, we swam, we floated around the lake on party barges. Most of us in our building are early morning people. By 6:00 or 6:30 a.m. we're on the porch drinking coffee and watching the sunrise. Evenings we watch the sunset. How could it be better?
Every Friday afternoon Debbie and I raced from work to the condo. We didn't even stop at the house first. Every Sunday afternoon we'd reluctantly go home. Then we started taking clothes for work so we could stay until Monday morning. If we didn't have work clothes with us and decided to stay we went to the mall and bought new ones. Debbie started coming over one night during the week. Then I started doing it. We were addicts!
The house in Benton began looking neglected because it was. I resented the attention it demanded. Our beautiful yard grew into chaos. I paid my nephew to keep it mowed so it didn't look abandoned.
In December 2005 the other shoe dropped. Dr. Suen told me that I had a tumor on the right side of my neck. That meant the cancer was moving. That meant so was I. I told Debbie that I wanted to change our plan. It was time to sell our house, our home for 15 years, and move to the lake. We were both a little shell shocked and it's a bad idea to make big decisions during times of stress but this time I knew I was right. I couldn't deal with two households and a recurrence. One I could control, the other I couldn't. Debbie agreed and by Christmas we were settled into our tiny nest on the lake. The move caused quite a stir among family and friends but, for us, it was the right thing to do.
As spring gave way to summer we met the other owners. It was a perpetual party every weekend. Fish frys sprang up from nowhere, each of us contributing something to the meal. We fished, we swam, we floated around the lake on party barges. Most of us in our building are early morning people. By 6:00 or 6:30 a.m. we're on the porch drinking coffee and watching the sunrise. Evenings we watch the sunset. How could it be better?
Every Friday afternoon Debbie and I raced from work to the condo. We didn't even stop at the house first. Every Sunday afternoon we'd reluctantly go home. Then we started taking clothes for work so we could stay until Monday morning. If we didn't have work clothes with us and decided to stay we went to the mall and bought new ones. Debbie started coming over one night during the week. Then I started doing it. We were addicts!
The house in Benton began looking neglected because it was. I resented the attention it demanded. Our beautiful yard grew into chaos. I paid my nephew to keep it mowed so it didn't look abandoned.
In December 2005 the other shoe dropped. Dr. Suen told me that I had a tumor on the right side of my neck. That meant the cancer was moving. That meant so was I. I told Debbie that I wanted to change our plan. It was time to sell our house, our home for 15 years, and move to the lake. We were both a little shell shocked and it's a bad idea to make big decisions during times of stress but this time I knew I was right. I couldn't deal with two households and a recurrence. One I could control, the other I couldn't. Debbie agreed and by Christmas we were settled into our tiny nest on the lake. The move caused quite a stir among family and friends but, for us, it was the right thing to do.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Here I come!
Writing this blog has created some unexpected benefits. Originally, my objective was to share my experiences with other cancer survivors and to give encouragement to those who needed it. Maybe I've done that, I don't know. What I know is that I see myself more clearly. By recounting difficulties and fears that I have overcome I realize how how much I've grown, how strong I really am. Paralyzing anxiety attacks no longer hold me back. I'm not plagued with "what ifs." I have no control over "what ifs." Instead I can climb aboard my Sea-Doo and zip across the lake by myself, exploring coves and islands.
I don't pretend to be fearless but I have a much better handle on who I am. I enjoy my own company but I enjoy the company of others. Anyone I've asked who has recovered from a life threatening illness has told me the same thing. While you're sick it's about the fight. If you accomplish recovery all the little aggravations become what they really are, pimples on the butt of life. My experiences have taught me patience but I'm impatient with people who get stirred up over petty things. Save that energy for a real fight.
This blog has helped me work through some resentments and grief and fears that I didn't even know I had. I was defining myself as a cancer survivor instead of incorporating the survival into the bigger picture of who I am. I'm moving forward and picking up steam.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Spring has sprung!
It may be snowing in Minnesota but it's springtime here. Spring brings us so much. This year is even more special because last year I felt so lousy. I know it's corny but I love it. The bluebirds sit on my porch rail and the little purple weedy things are blooming in the yard. Out at Garvan Woodland Gardens the daffodils are a yellow sea and in no time over 84,000 tulip bulbs will bloom. What's not to love? I've also discovered meadow saffron. They grow close to the ground like crocus but they're bigger. I can't even describe the color!As a garden volunteer I'm afforded all kinds of opportunities to participate in special events. Yesterday a group of us stomped through the woods with clippers gathering greenery that will be used for table decorations today at the Governor's luncheon at the Arkansas tourism convention. This morning I'll join a group at the convention center to make the arrangements. I don't know how to make flower arrangements but that's okay. I'll go as much for the camaraderie as the activity. I'm finally getting the hang of retirement. The most important thing I can do is seek good company and find worthwhile projects to keep me stimulated.
Monday, March 5, 2007
A room with a view
If I get after it I can clean our little condo in an hour. My problem right now is the weather. The sun is so beautiful shining off the lake that I can't stay inside. When I'm not outside I'm standing at the window. Dust motes dance in the light but I'm not inclined to eliminate their source. The tile is gritty but I walk over it on my way to the porch. I'm hypnotized by the view.
Debbie and I dreamed that some day we would live on the lake. We planned it for our "old age." Then one day we looked at one another with the same thought, "Go now!" We have to pinch ourselves occasionally. We live on the lake! We can walk a few yards and be on the edge of the water. We can sit on our porch and watch birds and boaters and fishermen. Yesterday Debbie wanted to fish. She just walked out the door, walked down to the boat, and drove away. In a couple of hours she was back with 15 beautiful crappie.
I still have to clean the condo but in an hour I'll be back outside, looking at the lake and enjoying this beautiful day.
Debbie and I dreamed that some day we would live on the lake. We planned it for our "old age." Then one day we looked at one another with the same thought, "Go now!" We have to pinch ourselves occasionally. We live on the lake! We can walk a few yards and be on the edge of the water. We can sit on our porch and watch birds and boaters and fishermen. Yesterday Debbie wanted to fish. She just walked out the door, walked down to the boat, and drove away. In a couple of hours she was back with 15 beautiful crappie.
I still have to clean the condo but in an hour I'll be back outside, looking at the lake and enjoying this beautiful day.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Time Heals
What a difference a year makes! This time last year I was miserable. I couldn't swallow, my left vocal chord was paralyzed, I was commuting 40 miles one way to work every day, and going to speech therapy in Little Rock a couple times a week. WHEW!
But look at me now! It all seems like a bad dream. I can eat without choking (most of the time). I can eat steak if it's very tender and I'm careful. That's a major step up from Stauffer's macaroni and cheese. I can swallow water! Yeah, sounds easy but water is a challenge because it's a "thin" liquid. If your throat doesn't close off the correct pipe when you swallow there is danger of aspirating liquid into your lungs which can cause pneumonia. My voice is stronger because I gave my vocal chord the rest it needed to heal when I quit working. I'm physically stronger because I'm not exhausted from the demands of a job and a long commute.
Some limitations I have had to accept; some may be temporary. Last year I wanted a drink of water. This year I might eat a hamburger!
But look at me now! It all seems like a bad dream. I can eat without choking (most of the time). I can eat steak if it's very tender and I'm careful. That's a major step up from Stauffer's macaroni and cheese. I can swallow water! Yeah, sounds easy but water is a challenge because it's a "thin" liquid. If your throat doesn't close off the correct pipe when you swallow there is danger of aspirating liquid into your lungs which can cause pneumonia. My voice is stronger because I gave my vocal chord the rest it needed to heal when I quit working. I'm physically stronger because I'm not exhausted from the demands of a job and a long commute.
Some limitations I have had to accept; some may be temporary. Last year I wanted a drink of water. This year I might eat a hamburger!
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I can't handle money!
When I had to quit working I was advised to apply for disability benefits. I asked around and checked with my doctor and decided to go for it. No one I talked to had a good story to tell. Knowing that I might encounter resistance from the government I dug in my heels and prepared for battle.
First, I made an appointment with a Social Security counselor. They book weeks in advance but the day for the interview finally dawned. I wanted to make a good impression so I drug out one of my "Marian the Librarian" jumpers and put on my sensible shoes. When I applied my makeup I left off the concealer I call crack filler. I put it on the scar in my chin to give myself the impression that it's less noticeable. After all, I needed the counselor to see the outward and visible signs of my disability. I was counting on the fact that the left side of my mouth doesn't always do what it's told to add to my air of "disabled." Cheesy, I'll admit, but effective.
The counselor was a sympathetic lady who asked millions of questions and recorded the answers on her computer. After the questions I had to run through my litany of surgeries, tests, and limitations. Last I had to sign a document that everything I had said was true. That done, the counselor told me I'd be hearing from them in a few weeks and I left. I figured, okay, that's step one done.
Several more weeks passed and I received a giant brown envelope stuffed with 3 packets of questionnaires that I had to complete and return. These questions were the same ones I'd answered at the Social Security office! I thought, "Aha! It's a trick to see if I lied." The questions were short answer and multiple choice for the most part. Not to worry, I'm a good test taker. I just had to take my time. It didn't take me long to figure out that the questions were repetitive. They asked the same thing about 3 different ways and were meant to assess mental limitations as well as physical limitations. I breezed through the sections about decision making and paying my bills but then they stumped me.
The question was, "How well can you handle money?" I'd already indicated that I could take care of my own finances so I took the question literally and answered at length. I explained that the neuropathy in my hands made it difficult for me to "handle" money. I described the way I dropped paper money because I couldn't feel it in my hands, that I often lost money from my pockets because I didn't know I had pulled it out, that I dropped coins because I couldn't grip them. It was quite an essay. Feeling pretty good about my answers I put the 3 questionnaires in the return envelope and took it to the post office.
It dawned on me the next day. They didn't want to know if I could "handle" money. They wanted to know if I could "manage" money!
Before long I was notified that my disability benefits would begin in February after the obligatory 5 month wait period. I think I set a record! I applied in August and was approved in October. My application was probably the office joke for awhile. "Hey! Look at this! This woman can't handle money!" Maybe my answer gave some bored bureaucrat a laugh because it sure cracked us up. Whatever the reason for the swift approval, mental or physical, I'm in and I didn't have to fight for it.
First, I made an appointment with a Social Security counselor. They book weeks in advance but the day for the interview finally dawned. I wanted to make a good impression so I drug out one of my "Marian the Librarian" jumpers and put on my sensible shoes. When I applied my makeup I left off the concealer I call crack filler. I put it on the scar in my chin to give myself the impression that it's less noticeable. After all, I needed the counselor to see the outward and visible signs of my disability. I was counting on the fact that the left side of my mouth doesn't always do what it's told to add to my air of "disabled." Cheesy, I'll admit, but effective.
The counselor was a sympathetic lady who asked millions of questions and recorded the answers on her computer. After the questions I had to run through my litany of surgeries, tests, and limitations. Last I had to sign a document that everything I had said was true. That done, the counselor told me I'd be hearing from them in a few weeks and I left. I figured, okay, that's step one done.
Several more weeks passed and I received a giant brown envelope stuffed with 3 packets of questionnaires that I had to complete and return. These questions were the same ones I'd answered at the Social Security office! I thought, "Aha! It's a trick to see if I lied." The questions were short answer and multiple choice for the most part. Not to worry, I'm a good test taker. I just had to take my time. It didn't take me long to figure out that the questions were repetitive. They asked the same thing about 3 different ways and were meant to assess mental limitations as well as physical limitations. I breezed through the sections about decision making and paying my bills but then they stumped me.
The question was, "How well can you handle money?" I'd already indicated that I could take care of my own finances so I took the question literally and answered at length. I explained that the neuropathy in my hands made it difficult for me to "handle" money. I described the way I dropped paper money because I couldn't feel it in my hands, that I often lost money from my pockets because I didn't know I had pulled it out, that I dropped coins because I couldn't grip them. It was quite an essay. Feeling pretty good about my answers I put the 3 questionnaires in the return envelope and took it to the post office.
It dawned on me the next day. They didn't want to know if I could "handle" money. They wanted to know if I could "manage" money!
Before long I was notified that my disability benefits would begin in February after the obligatory 5 month wait period. I think I set a record! I applied in August and was approved in October. My application was probably the office joke for awhile. "Hey! Look at this! This woman can't handle money!" Maybe my answer gave some bored bureaucrat a laugh because it sure cracked us up. Whatever the reason for the swift approval, mental or physical, I'm in and I didn't have to fight for it.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Through the eyes of a child
As spring dawns my attitude improves. It's been sunny and windy with temperatures in the 60s and 70s for several days. The warm temperatures give me a preview of days to come. They also give the daffodils and tulips at Garvan Woodland Garden what they need to spring to life. Garvan Woodland Gardens is an incredible botanical garden right here in Hot Springs and it's open to the public year round. You can check it out on its website www.garvangardens.org. People of all ages and conditions come from all over the country to enjoy its beauty.
I took my seven year old great niece, Heather, out there Saturday to look for daffodils. We rode in a golf cart because it had rained and it was a little muddy. This little girl is full of curiosity and adventure and I was glad I had her contained in a vehicle. Otherwise she would have had me climbing up and down every little path that shot off the main path. She would ask where we were "allowed" to walk so she realized that some areas were off limits to foot traffic. Kids that age blow me away! I thought she'd be bored but far from it. She kept me on my toes with her millions of questions. Repeatedly, she exclaimed, "This is SOOOO beautiful!" She noticed little signs along the paths and wanted to know what they were and what they said. I explained about identification tags and she insisted we stop frequently to learn the name of what she was looking at. Sometimes she just had to get out of the cart for a better look.
In a week or two the daffodils and tulips will be out in full force and I'll insist she come back. I think we'll walk. It will do me worlds of good to scramble up and down rock paths with her, looking at the beauty through her innocent eyes.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
YMCA
In an effort toward self improvement I joined the YMCA. I hate the kind of exercise that requires machines or repetitions but I enjoy the group classes so I go to yoga twice a week. I went to pilates once but the next day I could barely walk. That's a little more hard core than I want. I'm looking for stretch and balance and an overall feeling of well being; contemplative exercise, not sweaty exercise.
I also must consider the physical limitations created by various cancer treatments. Because of the muscle I lost in my neck on the left side I can't move my left arm in certain directions. I can raise it above my head and I can raise it to the back but certain sideways maneuvers are impossible. I learned that if I'm on my stomach with my arms stretched out in front of me I can't raise my left arm at all. That felt wierd. My brain said, "Lift!" but my arm ignored the command. Imagine having your whole body in that condition! The other thing is the neuropathy in my feet and hands. That was caused by 18 months of chemo. My hands and feet tingle like they are asleep. I almost fell on my head trying to do a tree pose because it's hard to stand on one foot if you can't feel the foot you're standing on. So I did what I had to do, I cheated. I put my hand on the wall and held myself up. Eventually I'll wean myself from the wall and do it the right way.
I also must consider the physical limitations created by various cancer treatments. Because of the muscle I lost in my neck on the left side I can't move my left arm in certain directions. I can raise it above my head and I can raise it to the back but certain sideways maneuvers are impossible. I learned that if I'm on my stomach with my arms stretched out in front of me I can't raise my left arm at all. That felt wierd. My brain said, "Lift!" but my arm ignored the command. Imagine having your whole body in that condition! The other thing is the neuropathy in my feet and hands. That was caused by 18 months of chemo. My hands and feet tingle like they are asleep. I almost fell on my head trying to do a tree pose because it's hard to stand on one foot if you can't feel the foot you're standing on. So I did what I had to do, I cheated. I put my hand on the wall and held myself up. Eventually I'll wean myself from the wall and do it the right way.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Going to the Wash 'n Go
My condo is too small to accommodate a washer and dryer so I am a weekly regular at the Wash 'n Go. For a shameless people watcher this place is a buffet. Hot Springs is a tourist town and it attracts people of every economic level, nationality, and age.
It also has a major horse racing track and that adds another dimension, the seasonal worker. Trainers, jockeys, hot walkers, horse owners, stable hands, gamblers, and sports writers come to Hot Springs in December and stay through April, when the season ends. This laundromat is across the street from the track so it's the most convenient for track employees who wash more than clothes at the Wash 'n Go. It also accommodates the track workers by designating washers and dryers for their needs. The dryers on the end are labelled "Track workers only" and there are special washers and dryers labeled "Horse blankets only." Horse blankets can create plumbing problems because horse hair, hay, and dirt clog the drains so its a bad idea to wash them in a regular machine.
I was influenced by Cheaper by the Dozen, so I challenge myself to streamline my laundromat experience when I can. I had traditional, clumsy laundry baskets so I searched online until I found hampers with wheels and a handle so I can pull them instead of carry them and I ordered 2. I keep a supply of quarters in a little red bag. My detergent stays in the car. And most importantly, I travel with what my family calls "an anti-boredom kit." It only takes me 90 minutes to do 4 loads but I don't just sit and stare at the wall. I always have a crossword puzzle book, a novel, sometimes a crochet project, and snacks. Add any of these activities to watching the colorful people already there and my 90 minutes fly. And this is the best part, Sonic is next door! Anything is bearable with ice cream.
It also has a major horse racing track and that adds another dimension, the seasonal worker. Trainers, jockeys, hot walkers, horse owners, stable hands, gamblers, and sports writers come to Hot Springs in December and stay through April, when the season ends. This laundromat is across the street from the track so it's the most convenient for track employees who wash more than clothes at the Wash 'n Go. It also accommodates the track workers by designating washers and dryers for their needs. The dryers on the end are labelled "Track workers only" and there are special washers and dryers labeled "Horse blankets only." Horse blankets can create plumbing problems because horse hair, hay, and dirt clog the drains so its a bad idea to wash them in a regular machine.
I was influenced by Cheaper by the Dozen, so I challenge myself to streamline my laundromat experience when I can. I had traditional, clumsy laundry baskets so I searched online until I found hampers with wheels and a handle so I can pull them instead of carry them and I ordered 2. I keep a supply of quarters in a little red bag. My detergent stays in the car. And most importantly, I travel with what my family calls "an anti-boredom kit." It only takes me 90 minutes to do 4 loads but I don't just sit and stare at the wall. I always have a crossword puzzle book, a novel, sometimes a crochet project, and snacks. Add any of these activities to watching the colorful people already there and my 90 minutes fly. And this is the best part, Sonic is next door! Anything is bearable with ice cream.
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