Holding My Breath...

I didn't want to say anything until I closed on it...bad luck, karma, the fear that someplace this wonderful would somehow evaporate if I talked about it before it was truly mine...But as of last Tuesday, this sweet little cottage is really mine.






It is as true as the wish I made for it...A tiny, pre-Civil War cabin set in the foothills of South Central Virginia, down a long and winding gravel lane that follows a meandering creek, surrounded by low-lying mountains.



I could not have asked for a better haven, could not have imagined any place this idyllic or peaceful.






And I found it by accident...sort of...

After months of looking online on realtor.com and on various realtors websites, I tried Cragislist.org. One paragraph written by the cabin's owner, 3 pictures to prove his point and I was hooked.

Mertis came to see it and she was so besotted, she bought the mountain (okay, big hill) across the lane!

Marti's thinking about building something here, too.

In fact, I could see a few of my women friends building little cabins in the woods- it would keep us all sane in our old age. What better than to have a little space to call your own where everything goes just the way you want it to...You don't have to cook supper if you don't want to, you don't do anybody else's laundry, you don't hear the blare of the TV or get sucked into the vast chasm that is the internet (oh, like it's just me wasting hours of my life looking up useless tidbits of fascinating information?)






There is no E-bay here. No mall. Hell, there isn't even a place nearby to buy a mop (Lord knows I tried!)



Instead there are more stars in the sky than I thought possible- so many they look like snowflakes and whispy clouds instead of the Big Dipper and Orion's Belt. I sat outside on a tractor last night, drinking beer and staring up at the sky, wishing my Dad who knew the name of each and every single constellation could be there with me.

And then I realized of course, he is.

Pickup Trucks and Pennies From Heaven

We miss Dad.

My brother and I are standing outside in the dark beside our trucks, talking in low voices about our dreams of Dad.

"Yeah," my brother says. "The day I bought my banjo, that night, I dreamed Dad and Papa Lee were laughing and dancing. Dad was doing that thing he used to do, you know how he'd hunch his shoulders up and go in those circles?"

"Like Bill Cosby?"

"Yeah, I always thought he danced just like Bill Cosby."

We love Bill Cosby,too.

"I think he and Papa Lee were happy I got the banjo," my brother says.

That would be like them, I think. Dad's father, Papa Lee, had a banjo, used to play in Vaudeville theaters before my father was born and then continued to entertain his family by playing the ukulele. I could see him dancing with happiness that the musical gene has continued on through the generations.

I tell my brother the dream I had where Dad comes and hugs me. But I realize in the moment that he takes me into his arms, he's dead. This isn't real.

I say this and my brother begins to cry. I look at him and dissolve myself. We stand between our two pickup trucks, crying, our children clustered around us, awkwardly patting our backs.

"I'm sorry," I tell my son later. "I didn't mean to do that."

"That's all right," he says, hugging me. "It was bound to happen. Every time you get together with your brother or your sister, you guys wind up crying."

Yeah, true that.

It's bedtime. Tomorrow is a new day, I think. No more tears for the rest of the trip, I promise myself...but I feel like I could cry forever.

I reach into my bag for pajamas. There is a penny resting on top of the bag. Another penny from Heaven.

It is Weekend Roadtrip # 2- With the Youngest Unnamed One.

I am sharing a few of his impressions...

The Road to Roanoke






But then, in the middle of our wanderings through Virginia, we arrive in the town of Natural Bridge, at the best of all possible tourist attractions. Surely one of the tackiest roadside attractions ever to collect money from unwitting touristas- The Haunted Monster Museum, Dark Maze and Dinosaur Park...Forget the Natural Bridge itself and the wax museum. The Monster Museum is well worth the $7 price of admission, for the photo ops alone.







We are lost here for over two hours, investigating the terrifying unkown...





This is terrifying, no?...



Until the creature moves his head and you can see...the stick.



It wasn't enough to save this poor lad.



Yes, even in the land of make-believe, the Civil War is still never far from the minds of some people...




The lad tells me the dinosaur museum alone has made this a trip of a lifetime.


And to think we have only just begun our epic roadtrip!


Tomorrow we take New York! Then on to Philadelphia and The Nightwatchman Concert.

Don't You Worry, I'll Take Care Of You...

My Day...Part Two

Her son drove Maimie down from Detroit, moved her into the nursing home and then disappeared. He didn't leave a number for the social worker to call in case of emergency. He didn't tell his mother he was leaving, or that he wouldn't return. He did manage to tell Social Security to forward her monthly check to him, though, but they aren't authorized to release his address.

He's a drug addict.

He returns a month later with her handicapped son, dumps him in a neighboring facility and disappears again. No forwarding address. But he's that boy's financial power of attorney too.

Maimie has no shoes, none of the special soap she uses for her dry skin, no pocket change, no T.V, nothing. She is trapped in a strange town trying to remember which of her children and relatives don't have a drug problem, then trying to remember their names and phone numbers.

And she cries because she wants to go home. She misses her grandbabies.

She is not even my patient...yet.

The social worker looks at me. "I was walking past her room yesterday and I heard her talking to herself. She was standing in the bathroom, looking into the mirror and just talking away."

"What was she saying?" I asked.

The social worker gives me the saddest look in the world.

"She was saying, 'Just you hang in there. Don't you worry. I'll get you out of here somehow. I just don't know why he done this to you but don't worry, I'll take care of you."

The Queen Is Not Amused

This is my day...Part One

Sitting in the day room at the nursing home, filling out a mountain of progress notes and utilization reviews while the T.V up on the wall in the corner blasts out an old black and white movie.

"Hey girl, you know who that is, don't you?" He demands.

He looks like a roly-poly Weeble...you know, "Weebles wobble but they can't fall down"? His pants circle the high-middle of his egg-shaped torso, white crew socks slip into black, thick-soled shoes. His short sleeve shirt needs only a pocket protector to scream "Geek!" He is the Teacher's Pet, the brown-noser, the tattle tale from elementary school only now he's grown into an old man with a thin mustache.

I look up because other than the Weeble, there is only one other woman in the room- an overweight black lady wearing a curly-haired wig and sighing because she's obviously constipated and trying to correct the situation.

"Uh, no," I answer. "Who is it?"

We are ignoring Betty's distress because it should be a private matter anyway.

"Audie Murphey. That's him when he was young."

"No it ain't!" Betty says, inspecting the screen carefully. She casts a doubtful glance at me and says, "It ain't him, is it?"

"He's playing Billy the Kid. I seen this movie a million times. I should know!"

I try to bow out of the discussion but then I have to mediate between them over whether or not the female lead is Jane Mansfield or Betty Hutton.

I think it is neither but I wouldn't swear to this in a court of law, so I ask the Weeble where my favorite lady, Jane, is.

"Aw, she had that bandage on her side changed and the doctor don't want her out of bed for a few days."

"Ah," I nod, understanding everything now. Jane is the Queen of the Dayroom but as she is temporarily away from the kingdom, The Weeble is taking over, bullying Betty and anyone else who comes in to the room.

"Betty!" The Weeble barks. "Cover your mouth when you cough!"

Betty looks at him. "I'm not elderly!" she tells him. I think she means to say she's not a child, but it's too late, the gauntlet has been cast down.

"You are too! I'm 70 and I'm elderly, so I know you are!"

"I'm 71 and I am not elderly." She looks to me for validation. "I'm not elderly, am I?" she asks.

"She's a hell of a lot older than 71," The Weeble mutters. "Why she's 85 if she's a day!"

But Betty isn't deaf. "I am not! I'm 71! Aren't I?" she asks me.

"You're as young as you feel," I say diplomatically. "And you sure don't look 85."

Now she looks offended and The Weeble is bristling. Obviously this wasn't what I was supposed to say.

"Well, what do you call a 71 year old virgin?" The Weeble demands suddenly. "I'm a 71 year old virgin. I'd call that elderly."

I'd call it a damned shame but I don't say so. Later when I visit the Queen in her room I tell her The Weeble is looking to usurp the throne.

"Aw, that little shit!" she says, annoyed. "He's only doing that because he knows I'm not there to keep him in line. You know, he never married. Lived with his mother all his life. He's a Mama's Boy, that's what he is!" The Queen is not amused.

I do not tell her The Weeble is a virgin. I just can't. It would somehow be like giving a shotgun to a cat facing down a tiny mouse and even the Weeble doesn't
deserve that.

"I'll git him back in line when the doctor lets me out of here. The nerve of him! She hunches herself up onto her elbows and fixes me with an imperious gaze, made more powerful by the way she has to peer over her glasses, down her nose to stare into my eyes. "Now, tell me again...What all did he say about me exactly?"

A Rainy, Penny Weekend With the Unnamed Eldest

To celebrate the Eldest Unnamed One's graduation from high school, we took a trip- just him and me.

I told him we could go anywhere he wanted to go...within reason.



He told me it couldn't involve a lot of driving or a long time away from The Beloved.

"The mountains," he offered. Then, just as I'd begun seriously looking for cabins- "Washington, D.C."

At the last minute I mentioned there was a bluegrass festival in Cherokee.

"Book it!" he cried.

I was shocked. Who thought the child would look back on his earlier years camping at the Fiddler's Convention every Memorial Day weekend, with such fondness?

Who knew we could even find the tent up in the attic, let alone remember how to set it up!

But we did.

We arrived in a pouring rain, took stock of our situation and went shopping...for another tent, a cheap gazebo, screened monstrosity we used as a staging area for setting up the real tent.

We didn't argue. Voices were never raised. We worked like a crackerjack team to assemble our weekend home and it all went off without a hitch.

I'd show you pictures but the card reader died.

My boy and I stood under umbrellas in the rain and listened to IIIrd Tyme Out and a host of others. We sloshed around to look at the vendors tents. We explored Dillsboro and Sylva. We laid up in our Aero beds and passed the crossword puzzle back and forth. We prepared feasts. And never once engaged in that "What are you going to do with your life?" stuff I'm sure he was expecting.

We just remembered who we are at the best of times and reconnected as two human beings who have a great fondness and mutual respect for each other.

It was wonderful- even though it rained and rained and rained.

And you know me and the penny thing?

We arrived and there in the middle of our campsite, was a penny.

We set up the tent and two pennies fell out into the middle of the floor.

There were pennies on the picnic table, pennies in our bags and finally, as we were leaving, we picked up the tent and there was a bright shiny new penny lying beneath the tent.

Pennies from Heaven and Dad- who would've really approved of our weekend happening.

So I Haven't Written in Awhile...

Okay, so I haven't written in awhile- Neither has Shakespeare!

I've been a little busy. It's the end of the school year and the Eldest Unnamed One is graduating from high school. Who knew there was so much parental responsibility involved?!

I suppose I should've anticipated this well in advance and planned accordingly but I am just not always that type of mom. So that means racing down to the finish line, always feeling like I've forgotten something.

There are the parties, given by parents and students; the ceremonies; the invitations and announcements; the last minute college stuff; the out-of-town relatives and most of all- the emotions. My biggest boy is taking yet another step toward adulthood and away from the safe and cozy nest where I have been able to keep a watchful eye on him.

That probably accounts for the fog surrounding my brain these days...Denial.



And then there has been another little distraction...



But I will have to tell you more about that in my next installation...

There You Are- There You Go...

In my dream I am lying on my bed. It's Saturday morning and the Youngest Unnamed One has come in to beg for a chicken bisquit breakfast. We are lying there laughing when suddenly my Sister Flea pokes her head around the corner of the bedroom door.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, surprised.

She explains she and her friend are going to another psychotherapy conference and stopped by to say hello. "Hey, did you see Dad yet?" she asks.

"What?"

"Dad," she explains patiently. "He's in there." She gestures to the Youngest's room.

I get up, round the corner, and there stands my father. He's wearing his plaid pajama bottoms and a maroon t-shirt. He's just standing there, grinning and opening his arms to hug me. He is very happy, like we're sharing a delightful reunion or a secret surprise. But he's also very, very pale I think.

"Dad, it's you!" I fly into his embrace but as I do I suddenly realize this can't be happening. Dad is dead. The pain this realization brings twines around the joy at seeing my father, at having him back. I am losing him, I think. I have lost him. I am sobbing as he strokes my hair. "Oh," he soothes. "Ohhh."

He knows I know. He is only here to let me know he's fine and really, really happy. He's here to let me know he is always with me. He doesn't say this. Somehow this is already in my head. But it's too late. I am waking myself up with my crying and he is fading, fading, fading away again.

Moonshine Madness at the Rest Home

It's Nursing Home Week. In one of the three facilities I visit, the staff has decided to celebrate this with five days of of festivities that center around a "Mayberry Days" theme.

What is it with North Carolinians and Andy of Mayberry?

I walked in this morning to find the social worker dressed as Goober, right down to the high-wader pants, white socks, black shoes and wacky black felt cap. Her face was smudged with gray and green grease stains and when she smiled, well, I hate to say this but she "favored" old Goober right well.

But when the maintainence man walked by with a still on a cart, I had to stop.

It was copper. It even worked, dispensing apple juice through copper tubing.

"Any residents wanting a little moonshine report to the day room," a cheery announcer called over the loudspeaker.

The Director of Nursing was Barney Fife.

It was all just a little too real for one of my old guys.

Laura was sitting in her room when I found her, slowly nibbling on her lunch and shaking her head back and forth, clucking and frowning her disapproval at the day's festivities.

"You know," she said. "This is the heart of Baptist country." She looked at me, making sure she had my attention before she clarified her statement. "Now, I'm not one of them. I'm Methodist. But I'm just sayin' there's lots of Baptists here and they don't approve of drinking."

Laura takes another nibble of her chicken casserole and looks out into the hallway carefully, like she's being careful not to be overheard.

"You know," she says. "I don't think they gave this very careful consideration before they decided to do this. What if word of that still thing gets out into the community? I think there'd be big trouble then. And Sheriff Andy and Barney and the whole lot of them were there, standing right alongside that still, handing out the cups to everybody."

I try to explain the reality of the situation. "Oh, but they were just the staff members dressed up as..."

"Oh, no," Laura says, shaking her head. "It was them alright. I was right up there next to them when they started pouring the juice into those cups. I asked the man where did he get that machine and he said he made it! Well, I said those tubes are copper. How do you know what's coming out hasn't been poisoned from the tubing?"

Laura is now raising questions I hadn't even considered.

"Andy Griffin isn't going to be very happy about this," she says, absolutely certain. "I bet they didn't even call him about it. If they had, he would've told them it wasn't a very good idea. Not in Baptist country."

I try again. "I'm sure they didn't mean any harm," I demur. I try to explain the moonshine is apple juice and it's all make believe but Laura seems to feel this is irrelevant.

"Tell that to the Baptists!" Laura says. She pushes the bedside table away so she can lean closer to me. Suddenly she barks, "Where are we?"

"What?" I stammer, momentarily confused.

"Where are we? What is the name of this place?"

Boy, I think, Laura's really losing it.

I carefully ennunciate the answer, as if I might be breaking bad news to her, in case she thought perhaps we were at her old home or Mars or somewhere else. But when I name our location, it's Laura who beams at me like I'm the prize pupil.

"That's right!" she crows. "And where is Mayberry?"

"In Mt. Airey?" I answer uncertainly.

"Co-rect! This is not Mt. Airey! So how do you think they'll feel up in Mt.Airey if it gets out Andy, Barney and the rest of 'em are all down here drinking out of a moonshine still?!"

I am speechless.

Laura leans in close again, checks the hallway and whispers, "Do you know, one of them standing up there handing out the cups is a minister's daughter?"

I give up.

"No!" I gasp. And here I thought I was the only minister's daughter in the building.

Laura nods. "Yep. A minister's daughter." She shakes her head again. "Poor man! I just hope he's not Baptist!"

Let Them Eat Strawberry Cake...You Too!

Like I told you, the old guys love their strawberries. I promised them a strawberry cake this week, made from berries handpicked by me and my friend, Ellen. We picked the berries from a field the old guys declared grows some of the best strawberries in the county...although this nearly drew blood as the old ones debated with a newcomer resident about the relative merits of Rudd's Farm over The Berry Patch.

I brought in the cake because Benny, the assistant activity director, said they weren't doing anything special on Thursday. "Bring us something sweet," Benny begged.

But the activity room was dressed for a party when I arrived.

No one was there in the room, so I set down the cake on the table next to the other platters and went in search of the old guys and their fearless leaders.

I found them in the dining room playing Nursery Rhyme Trivial Pursuit.

"This old man, he played..." Benny paused, waiting as the others called out "One!"

I sat down at a table with Ruby and Geneva. We rolled our eyes at the questions and made faces when we couldn't remember the answers. I got into a debate with Benny over the fate of Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater's wife. Benny said she ate pumpkin and I said I thought she was a victim of domestic violence.

"Didn't Peter beat her?" I asked Ruby.

"Well, I suppose if she ate all his pumpkin, he had every right," she answered. "I would've. Hey, did you bring us something to eat?"

"Yeah," said Benny, losing interest in the game we'd all lost interest in a long while back. "Is it sweet?"

I tell them I left it in the activity room with the other party food and Benny's eyes widen. "Oh, no! You shouldn't have done that! That's for the nurses' party. They'll get it!"

I had been gone 10 minutes, tops. But when I ran into the activity room, half the pan was empty.

"You made that? Girl," one nurse says, turning to the others. "You got to get you some of that strawberry cake. It taste like my grandma makes."

Oh, this is high praise indeed. I almost hate that I have to take it away from them.

The look on their faces is priceless when I say, "That's not for you. It's for the old guys." They look like I've caught them stealing from the church collection plate. In fact, they are so appalled that they've eaten so much of the cake, I have to spend a couple of minutes reassuring them that I made too much anyway and everything will be fine.

Sure enough. Like the loaves and the fishes, everyone eats cake, even Benny, even the nurses who didn't get a piece the first go round. Even I get a piece.

It's a miracle, especially when you consider that they keep coming from everywhere to eat some "granny" cake.

So, here's the recipe, sanctioned and approved by the old guys...

STRAWBERRY CAKE

1 pkg. white cake mix (Okay, so I was in a hurry...but a cake mix is a good jumping off point)

1 package Dream Whip

1 stick melted butter

1/2 package strawberry jello

4 eggs

1 c. mushed up strawberries and their juice.

1/2c water

Combine cake mix, Dream Whip, jello in mixer bowl; add everything else and beat on low until blended, then on high for 4 mins. Bake at 350 in well greased pans for @ 30 min. or until the toothpick comes out clean. Remove to cool. Ice and chill until serving time.

Frosting for Strawberry Cake

1 stick softened butter
1/2 package strawberry jello
@ 1/3 c. mushed up strawberries
1-1 1/2 lb. confectioner's sugar.

Cream sugar and butter, add the other stuff and mix until it's spreadable.

I am not a scrupulous measurer, so if you need more sugar or strawberries, play with it.

Eulogizing Life

My old guys love homemade food...any homemade food. But it's Strawberry season and the old guys love strawberries it seems, more than anything else.

They were making quilt squares when I saw them Tuesday, sitting around the table, some sleeping, others just hanging on to their fabric pieces and staring past them at something or some time none of us were privvy to.

The assistant director and I have bonded in one of those soul deep ways that transcends who we are on the outside. We love our old guys. She likes to tell me that on her worst day, coming to work always makes her feel better- that they give more to her than she does to them...but I don't know about that.

Once she and the director drove Pearl all the way to the beach...five hours away, and stayed in a hotel, just because blind Pearl had never "seen" the ocean. That picture is taped to the side of the assistant A.D's file cabinet.

Last month, when we lost so many, the Assistant A.D had to give their eulogies at the memorial service. The hospice chaplain was late and as it so often does, the job fell to Benny.

I had slipped into the room, filled with residents and family...but oddly enough, not staff. Benny's eyes met mine. In front of everyone she said, "I don't know if I can do this y'all, but I'm gonna try."

I have never heard anyone so eloquently capture the essential spirit of a human being like Benny does.

Last week Benny sat in her office, crying with me. She was mad at the staff for overlooking her partner, the Activity Director. "She's done so much for them, and now, when she needs them, they can't even get up off their asses to sign a damned card!"

And then she cried for "Papa Franks." "I don't know if I can let myself get that close to anyone again. He was like my father, Nancy. He was!"

But we are too alike, me and Benny. We will look into a resident's eyes and take them into our hearts without a second thought about the cost later- when we lose them. I tell her this. I tell her we have been given such a gift to have these old guys in our lives and that there is never a guarantee, with anyone we love, that they will be around tomorrow. "We will all die," I tell her.

But I don't tell her that when I go, I hope she does the eulogy.

Good Morning From the Garden...

Good Morning from the garden...





It's off to work and then strawberry picking with my friend, Ellen...It's a tradition. We try to go every year.

Last year was the first in my convertible...so when I drove us through the sprinklers and only put up the top when we stopped, the man running the place came out and said, "Hey, ain't that a little like closing the barn door after the cows are out?"

I get out, trying to act casual. "Oh, no- I meant to do that," I say.

Not this year! It's right nippy out...too nippy for sprinklers.

Life in Miniature at the K & W Cafeteria

The Eldest Unnamed One is drunk on being 18, in love and his impending high school graduation. He is brash and goofy, a know-it-all and a kid again...and it is only Tuesday.

We are in line at the K & W Cafeteria, trying to pretend we don't know each other. I ignore his silliness. He ignores Mertis's silent disapproval. I talk to the Youngest Unnamed One and wish the line wasn't so long.

It has been a hard day in Old People Land. The social worker at one place, one of the young, good ones, may not quit after all, but only because her heart's been broken by the new boyfriend. I am selfishly glad.

I am thinking about this when I hear a voice say, "You know, you keep chewin' on that pen and you'll wind up swallowing it. You don't want to write your name that way, now do you?"

I turn and catch my breath. Hell. A frail old man in an orange ball cap, his jeans loose and cinched tight around his waist with a canvas belt, a frayed hole in the back of his pants exposes his shirt tail. His smile is disarming, his eyes gray-blue and too happy for what I am sure is about to come.

He has taken on the Eldest, the one who is never wrong, facing off against the kid with a happy smile and the clear expectation that this is going to be a wonderful conversation.

The Eldest chuckles, sticks the pen in his pocket and says something I don't hear...but the Beloved smiles, so I know he can't have insulted the old man.

"She your sister?" the man asks.

The Eldest smiles indulgently while the Beloved explains, "Girlfriend."

"Girlfriend, eh?" He gives the Eldest a collegegial smile. "Well, you favor, that's why I asked."

"I graduated high school in 1947," I hear the old man say. Two women I take for his wife and daughter try to pretend they're not with him, turning their attention toward the cafeteria line and murmuring to themselves about what they'll have and what will disagree with their tricky stomachs.

The Old Guy is oblivious. "1947," he says. "That was probably before your time, huh?"

The Eldest chuckles. When the Old Guy asks where The Eldest will be going to school, he feigns mock indignation. He's a State grad.

"What was your major?" I hear the Eldest ask. He seems truly interested.

I decide maybe I won't disown him after all.

The Old Guy tells the Eldest every parable and bit of advice he can think of and fit into the ten minute trip down the food line...And all the while my son listens, nodding and commenting, smiling and agreeing...even when I'm fairly certain he doesn't truly agree.

I look at the Old Guy and do the math. He is my father's age...were he here. I think of the Eldest and my Dad, of the way my father loved that boy and of how the boy loved his grandfather.

I remember the dream I had the night before. I am in my father's parents' living room. Both my grandparents are there, sitting enjoying the cocktail hour just as they did every afternoon. Only, I know they are dead. I know they are dead and I know my father is dying. He is with me, following me into the room. In my dream, dad is much younger. He is the same age he was when I was five.

He walks into his parents' house, sees his father sitting in his favorite arm chair and Dad's knees buckle and give out as he sags against me. I am trying to hold my father up and he is crying. He knows his father is dead. He knows he is dying. But I think he cries because he is so glad to have him back.

I am standing in the line at the K & W, watching my son and the new friend who needs to pack every bit of his life into the Eldest's awareness before they come to the end of the line and there is no more time.

I am following the two of them, half-attending to Mertis and the Youngest Unnamed One, pretending I care what we eat when all I want is my dad.

The Eldest Unnamed One realizes none of this, surely doesn't know what a microcosm this cafeteria has become for our lives and probably would care less if he did know.

Some days I wonder how the world can keep spinning without Dad. Missing him takes my breath away.

And then I see him in the Eldest or in the Youngest and I realize he is here after all...Dad would've listened to the Old Guy. He would've smiled indulgently at the Eldest, found his way into the heart and soul of the Youngest and made Mertis laugh.

He would've understood life in miniature at the K & W on a Tuesday evening.

The Price of Doing Business...Here

The Unnamed Ones are at it again. Last week while the Eldest was home sick with a bug and his brother was keeping him company, they made more money in three hours than I make consulting in my three nursing homes in a week!

Smug. Let me tell you, they are full of themselves.

They even gave me change back when I sent them to the store!

What is the world coming to?

Hey, maybe I should charge a commission on all their work as A.) this is my house and they were using my utilities and, more importantly...B.) I was the one who raised them to be such devilish entrepreneurs!

That's worth what, 30 percent?

Doing Battle With Demons

Yesterday I sat for hours with a man who is dying and worried that God won't understand the things he did during World War II.

He has been having flash backs and episodes of panic so intense he seems unreachable.

As I sat beside him, holding his hand and listening, he took me with him through, I believe, every major battle fought during that war, with the exception of those fought in the Pacific Theater.

He was 18.

My eldest boy is 18 and I can't imagine him facing the horrors my patient had to withstand.

He was tapped to be in the 101st Airborne and placed in Intelligence and Reconnaissance. It seems this boy from North Carolina had a gift for spotting tanks and airplanes on aerial maps. He was also fluent in French and German- a by-product of his German heritage. His reward was to be the youngest of 76 men selected to parachute behind enemy lines, to record and scout out enemy activity, to lead men years older into battles that resulted, a lot of the time, in their death.

He was forced to do things that I know many soldiers have to do- but rarely tell upon their return to civilian life.

As I sat beside him, he was there again, the years melting away as he screamed out in flawless German, begging the unseen before him to put down their weapons.

My man is the sole survivor of the 76 men he went to war with and he tells me it will not be long before he joins his brothers. He is terrified that when he dies, their memories will die as well- they will vanish like the men who died in battle, and not be remembered or understood by anyone. He is worried that no one will believe what he is saying is true, that it could have really happened.

I ask him if he would like me to write down their stories.

Wrong move.

"No, those are my stories! Mine alone! No one can have them, do you hear me? No one! You must never tell what I am telling you!"

I soothe him, reassure him that his stories, his memories, are safe, locked away inside me in a place where I keep all the atrocities that my patients need to set free. I am the landfill for trauma so unfathomable sometimes I have to create conscious rituals to cleanse myself before I can return home to my family.

I pretend I have been in an operating theater, gowned, gloved and masked. When I leave, I am soaked in blood, but I strip off my gloves, throw away my gown and toss the mask in the trash on my way to the car.

I will not tell his stories. I want to, oh I really want to, because for every commercial glorifying the Marine Corps or the Army, there are the walking wounded who return, their lives unalterably changed and not for the better. They have been told to put the war out of their minds, not to speak of it to anyone.

My man obeyed the rules but at a terrible price.

We will spend whatever time he has left trying to cut the thick chains that hold him hostage. We will try to let go of these terrors so he can die without feeling so afraid and ashamed.

He is a brave and loving man, a father, a grandfather and a great-grandfather. He loves, no adores, his wife...and none of his family know what he is carrying.

He looked at me before I left, still holding my hand tightly in his own. "You know," he said, his eyes piercing through me. "I studied Psychology. I got to be a fairly good judge of human character and I have learned- there are those you can tell things to and those you know to avoid. I told you things today I have never told anyone."

I squeezed his hand, an unspoken promise for our future talks, and told him I would be back on Thursday.

I didn't want to run out of the nursing home yesterday. Days like yesterday are the reason why I haven't quit yet.

Things That Go Bump In The Night...

Mary never lies to me. In fact, most of my old guys tell the truth straight up, whether I like it or not.

"Yeah, you got them big hips and legs," she says, smiling like this is a compliment. "But they're nice. That's good. Men like that."

I smile back, but I swear off jelly beans and chocolate covered mints.

"Sometimes I hear things in here," she says. Her facial expression hasn't changed. She is still smiling but a chill runs up my spine.

"What do you hear, Mary?" I ask.

Mary hesitates. Her eyes waver away from mine for a brief second, enough for me to know she's learned the cardinal rule of The Home: "Don't tell. Don't tell anyone because if you do- we'll pay you back."

"Nothing," Mary says. "I think it's just them checking on me."

But it's too late, I know Mary sees and hears everything. I heard her talk about the lady in the room next door who cried out at night for a nurse and how the aides got tired of answering her call button. "I heard them laughing about her but then one night, she died. I heard this choking sound and they all went rushing in there. But she was gone."

I know Mary thinks her neighbor was neglected, but she won't talk. She's afraid. I have tried to reassure her but the trouble with me is, I leave. I get to walk out and go home. I'm only there two afternoons a week and that's not enough protection to make Mary feel safe.

Are you scared yet? Because one day this will be you and me. Go ahead and think, oh no, my family would never...but they might. They might be faced with your overwhelming medical problems and feel there are no other options. They will come to visit you, the good ones always do, but they have lives and jobs and families. They will get tired and eventually their visits will grow less frequent and you will be on your own too much of the time.

God help you if you have dementia. You can't tell on the staff when you can't remember your own name.

So Mary and I sit, her in her bed, me in her wheelchair, and go where she feels comfortable taking me...

"I told you I saw a ghost once," she reminds me.

"I was goin' across the street to ask Mr. Harold what time was it because our clock broke. My Mama was standin' up on the porch watchin' me, too. She said, she saw this little light go down along the other side of Mr. Harold's house and she thought it was the newspaper boy but it wasn't."

Mary's eyes are huge. "All I saw was legs, not no head, or body or nothin' but legs! I went runnin' back to Mama and she said 'What's the matter,child, you see something?'" Mary nods her head emphatically. "I told her 'Yes, Ma'am, I did!' And she said, 'I thought so. I saw it too, one time.'"

Mary smiles again. "Mr. Harold, he said it was his first wife. He said she come round all the time. She be standing out by the wood pile when he come out to get wood, just lookin' at him."

I say, "Wow! That must've freaked Mr. Harold out- his second wife asleep in the front room and his first wife waiting for him out by the wood pile!"

Mary shakes her head no, still smiling. "He said it didn't bother him none. He said she probably just want to see him."

"But he married someone else. Wasn't he worried his first wife would be mad?"

Mary just shakes her head and gives me her sanguine smile. "Now why would she be mad about that? She's dead!"

I can't believe Mary and I are discussing the feelings of a dead first wife, popping in to visit her husband and his new wife. But when I put it into the context of all the things we are not discussing, it makes perfect, beautiful sense. We are discussing things other people probably wouldn't believe, things we can't just tell anybody because they'd think we're nuts, or worse, imagining things again.

I Want to Run Away From The Home...

Working in the nursing homes is getting to me. I can tell by the way I drag over to each home now, as if I, too, am growing older with each visit. It seems the staff cares less than they did when I started but how can that be?

Maybe it's that the good ones always leave- the lively, energetic, happy, save-their-corner-of-the-world helpers always leave. And now, secretly, I want to go too.

I hate the paperwork. I hate that every tiny piece of it is analyzed with far more scrutiny than my patients ever receive.

I found Bunny in her room, reading her Bible this morning, trying not to cry.
She points to a splint the physical therapist just put on her arm. "She told me my arm ain't never gonna move no more. Ain't nobody ever told me that. How am I gonna get out of this place, I can't move my arm? Oh, Lord," she moans, her head heavy on the cheap, polyester pillow. "They ain't never told me that."

I want to beat the insensitive therapist. How dare she take away Bunny's hope? Why couldn't she say, "Your left arm just isn't following our plan, now is it, Bunny? But don't you worry, we're going to work extra hard on your right arm. Then we can get you strong enough to pull yourself up in bed. Once we do that, we'll work on the next step."

Was that too much to ask?

So I ask Bunny, "I thought you were working on walking with them?"

"I was," she says, sounding miserable. "But my knee hurt me so bad. I tried it twice but it still hurt and then they gave up on me."

Bunny tells me she's got problems with her blood pressure too. "They're supposed to take it every day, but they don't."

And did she mention she's having problems with her vision? "Sometimes the wall is down there on the floor and the TV's on the ceiling. That happened to me before. I think it's a pill they changed but they don't tell me nothing."

I tell her I think I need to go read her chart. I tell her she knows her body better than anyone else and if she says something changed two months ago, I trust that.

I start reading. I try to make sense of the jargon, the medications I know nothing about, the test results. I'm not sure what's going on. I'll need to talk to the staff. I know I'll never see her doctor, but I don't think much of her anyway. It requires a lot of digging...and I only get paid for face to face time, so the digging is pro bono. For whatever time it takes, I'll make, no joke, about $15.

If I wasn't a single mom, it wouldn't matter but on days when the rent is due, I hate to admit it, but it matters. Not enough to stop me. Today.

I do find one note I understand in Bunny's chart. It's from the physical therapist. It says Bunny's knee hurts because she has gout. It says the doc is putting her on a new gout medicine and they'll re-evaluate her in two weeks.

That was 2 months ago and it never happened. That I can work with. I tell Bunny and promise her I'll tell the social work department. I tell them. I see them write it down. I tell them what they said about Bunny's arm and they look disgusted.

The social workers, I am learning, are young wild asses. They tell me great stories about their men and their take on getting their needs met. They work all day to take care of others but they have no problem getting men to line up to tote their freight after hours. "Honey," one tells me. "Always pay part of the rent. That way, if he gets stupid, you can say 'Hey, I paid my portion!'" She looks at me. "Note, I did not say my half. I said my portion."

I know they will kick some physical therapy ass.

So Bunny is at least going to get on the right road...for today.

I am almost ready to leave when Tabitha, the business office manager, burst in. She closes the door behind her, sits down, clearly agitated and angry.

"Tashya, if you don't help me and Mrs. Winters, I swear somebody's gonna get hurt!"

They put the social work department in a windowless closet on the second floor. The room is no bigger than 6' x 9'. There are three of us now, closed up in this tiny room. Tashya rolls her chair up to Tabitha's and looks right into her eyes. I sink back down into the folding chair, trapped because the two women are between me and the door and I am too interested/nosy now to leave anyway.

"What is it?" Tashya asks Tabitha.

"All Mrs. Winters wants is to get out of her bed. She's hurting so bad, I can't stand it!" Tabitha's eyes well up with tears. "You know how I am about my Mrs. Winters!"

"I know, baby, I know," Tashya soothes.

"That damned aide says they can't get the Hoya lift for her because it's up under Mrs. Smith and her husband says they own that lift. They don't own that lift! I'm gonna beat somebody they don't straighten it out so I came up here to you so I don't get fired for beating somebody's ass!"

I have not been this happy in one of my homes in maybe a year. This is energy. This is concern and caring. Okay, so it's raw and unrefined, but damned if it isn't energy and therefore, hope.

Tashya is itching to leave for the day, but she doesn't. She says, "I'm gonna fix it right now." And she takes Tabitha with her, so she can see the situation get fixed.

I get sidetracked with another problem but as I'm leaving, I see the physical therapy aide leaving the social work closet and she does not look happy. This makes me even happier because I know she just got called down for hurting Bunny's feelings and not following through on her care.

But I still want to quit.

I don't want to watch any more people hurt or cry or give up. I don't want to lose any more of my friends. I don't want to wonder why someone died.

I go to the next home. It is awful. I think about the things I find and correct but I worry more about what I never see, or suspect but can't prove. I wish I were a doctor so I could tell when medical problems aren't handled correctly.

I stop beside Lawrence...the little old man who looks like a plucked, beakless chicken. He is not my patient but I love him. He is mumbling to himself, lost in Alzheimer's, his eyes so rhumey it seems he is always crying.

I touch his bony shoulder, squat down and take the hand he offers. "Hey, Lawrence," I say, as soft as a kiss on his cheek, as if I can convey every touch and hug he needs in a single phrase because I'm fairly certain Lawrence has lost the ability to understand language. "How are you?" I ask.

He gives it right back to me, the same loving glance. He mumbles unintelligibly...but it sounds like "Better." I hold his hand and smile at him. I look into his eyes for a long moment. "Yes," I whisper. "I know, Lawrence, I know."

When I am walking away I hear him, as clear as day. "I love you," he says. "Yes, I do. I know."

I am smiling as I walk away, wishing I didn't want to quit, wishing I didn't have the urge to run right out the front door every time I pass it.

I know I do good here. Last week, when I complained about Bessie's no-account son refusing to get her hair done, two people (okay, Mertis and Marti)immeadiately offered to fund her hair-do cost for a year. It's a small change, I know, but they are making Bessie's life a happier one. That's good.

I know I am being the change I wish to see in the Universe.

I just wish I didn't want to run out that front door and never come back.

Life With Eddie and Marion...

My friend, Eddie, is afraid of the woods. They make him feel "claustrophobic," he told me. "All that nature," he whines, crinkling up his nose. "It's just a little bit, well, creepy crawly, don't you think?"

A chipmunk rustles around in the leaves below my friend, Marion's deck, and Eddie can't stand it. "Bears live in woods!" he screeches.

"Gee, Eddie, ya think? I thought only the Pope lived in the woods," Marion snipes.

That's, of course, before he smokes a joint and the two of them break out the Wild Turkey. After that, you could roll a tank through Marion's tee-ninesy back yard and Eddie wouldn't give a rat's tail about it.

Of course they get the giggles. I listen to them laughing about stupid stuff, thinking what a giant waste of my time! And how do you really spell the sound of a giggle? Hee-hee-hee, doesn't seem to really cover it, but I type it in anyway as I'm trying to transcribe their every syllable.

I'm about to reach into the book and steal a shot of their Wild Turkey when both of them get quiet. Marion's staring into the fire Eddie built in the chimenea, but Eddie, he's got tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Poor Nadean," he whispers.

Marion stops staring into the fire and looks at Eddie. She's got that "Mom" look Eddie's so fond of, but he doesn't see her. He's too messed up to see much of anything at the moment.

I sigh, put the Wild Turkey back on the picnic table behind them and dash back to the computer.

"Who's Nadean?" Marion and I ask him but he only hears her, because after all, I'm just the book's transcriptionist.

"My mom," Eddie whispers.

"Huh?" I say, sitting up and paging back through the neatly typed manuscript. "No, she's not your mom. You said your mom was Nora. It's right here on page 64!"

Marion's on it. "I thought Nora was your mom," she parrots.

Eddie shakes his head. "I said she was like a mom."

Marion shakes her head. "Nope, on page 71 you referred to her as your mom," she insists.

I check. Marion's right.

Eddie's still shaking his head. "I lied," he says. "Now I'm too high to lie."

"That's right," I tell them, disgusted. "Make me a poet now. I don't care!"

"Did you hear something?" Eddie asks Marion. "You think them bears are back?"

That is what it's like living inside this author's head today! So, it was pizza for supper, no lipstick and frizzy hair when I did go out, and all of the Eldest Unnamed One's dark clothes crammed into one load.

But hey, at least Eddie and Marion are happy!

If Your Phone Ain't Ringing, It's Only Me...

If your phone ain't ringing- it's only me.

It's been a little stressful around here. The house down the street, the one I've been working on getting rid of is set to close at noon on Friday- God willin' and the creek don't rise- literally.

There are all kinds of details to be taken care of and they're cropping up around here like mushrooms after rain. The place would've taken what sanity I have left but I'm afraid Marion and Eddie already got away with it.

It's bad enough around here to make a normal person long for the solace of a deserted island. Add Eddie and Marion into the mix and even an extrovert would head for the hills.

What's happening to me lately is exactly what we writers pray for.

We sit for years, waiting for our Muse to whisper sweet nothings in our ears.

Of course, noe of my Muses have never whispered. They burst through the door like the sheriff in a spaghetti western and the tone they take when they arrive would never be mistaken for sweet.

Sierra, my first, waited until I'd had way too much coffee, then spooked me by appearing to stand next to me in the basement. She was six feet tall, blonde, Italian and stacked. "Yo," she said. "Listen up! My boss is in the freezer in my trailer. Somebody shot him and stuffed him in there, so you'd better start typin'."

That's how real our characters are when things are going good, when we're in "The Zone."

The characters move in- taking over your home, your life, your schedule, everything, until they're finished telling you the whole story.

The trouble is- I find them fascinating.

Marion and Eddie crashed a seminar I was taking on Mindfulness.

They didn't mind and neither did I. The presenter was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Eddie had Marion standing naked at the edge of her diving board. He was holding a gun on her and demanding to know where Harry was.

I was suddenly very mindful...of Eddie and Marion.

They've been with me ever since.

They don't like housework- at least they don't like me to do any.

They deeply resent my nursing home obligations. "Where are you going?" Marion whines. "I was just going to tell you about Cyndal. She's dead you know." Marion's eyes well up. "She was my best friend."

Her lower lip trembles. She whips out the photographs of the two of them, side by side with Jimi Hendrix, and grabs my arm. "Surely the old people can wait just a little while longer..."

So I sink back into my chair and flip open the laptop. "Okay, shoot," I tell her.

"Speaking of shooting," Eddie cries, bursting through my office door. "There's cops at Marion's front door."

"What?" Marion's on her feet, ready to run. "You moron, why didn't you tell me?"

"What do you think I just did?" he shouts and they're off, arguing again.

I feel so...so taken for granted. They just expect me to type their every syllable as fast as they utter them. And there isn't a "thank you" between the two of them.

So, when I don't return your call, when I miss your poetry reading, or forget to bake cookies on Tuesdays, don't judge me too harshly. I really have very little control over my current conditions...I'm a hostage of my two Muse-lings...at least for now...

Don't worry. This sort of thing doesn't happen often. I sell my house what, once every twelve years? And the last time I got invaded by characters, the Youngest Unnamed One hadn't even started kindergarten.

Whoops, gotta go! Eddie just found the pot Cyndal hid in the kitchen...

It's That Time of Year Again...

It's that time of year again.



No, not Tax Day. It's Marti's Birthday...



Which this year also coincides with The Prom.

Once again I found myself struggling to make a corsage for The Beloved as The Eldest Unnamed One had to have one that went with her gown...(Which someone said was blue-green...Not!)



I think after a few years of practice I may be getting the hang of it.



They are so happy, so full of the world and its possibilities.



I'm exhausted. It's been a day of baking, housecleaning, celebrating and trying hard not to remember that in a few short months my boy and his friends will be flying the nest and leaving the world we have shared for 18 short years.

I suppose that means Bailey will be getting more haircuts and having to put up with a neurotic owner who shaves his hair off and dresses him up funny costumes...

Happy Mother's Day From Your Devoted Son...

When Bessie first came to the nursing home she was a nervous wreck.

Whenever you're anything at the nursing home other than demented or deleriously happy, they call me in, the psychiatric social worker. It's my job to help you find happiness, or at least get you to shut up about whatever it is that's bothering you.

Truly, sometimes that's what all it boils down to. Call in the social worker and make this problem go away.

Only I don't do that. I can't. First of all- Come on, if you were in a nursing home, would you be happy about it? Secondly, if someone's not happy, it's flat out wrong to recommend medicating them into a stupor so no one's bothered by your painful transition into Happyville.

So I try and figure out what's the worst part of being stuck in Hell, then try to see if I can't turn the flames down enough for my people to bear their new situation. Sometimes, more often than I'd like, there is nothing I can do. But when Bessie came to stay in her new home, I was able to help.

All I had to do was get her quite wealthy son to agree to come up off $12 a month so she could get her hair done. The sad thing was- this was no small feat.

Do you know that if all that stands between you and the street is your Medicaid check, the nursing home takes all but $30 bucks of it in order to cover your stay? Now, in a lot of cases that check doesn't go very far at all. Five hundred and something bucks to provide care, room and board...give or take $70 for an aspirin.

So there you are with $30 every month to clothe yourself and get your hair done. The hairdresser costs $12 a pop to wash, trim and set your hair.

When Bessie's son said his mom didn't need the services of a hairdresser, Bessie nearly lost her mind. You see, Bessie worked hard in the tobacco factory all of her life, raised her children without benefit of a father or child support, and still managed as time went by and the children left home, to get her hair done every Saturday morning.

The nursing home social worker and I went round and round with the man just to get him to leave enough of the $30 in her account for her to get her hairdone at the home once a month! Finally, the activity director flat out told the man the $30 belonged to his mother to spend as she wished and she would be getting her hair done every other week.

But it's been two years and Ms. Bessie has forgotten the struggle. She sighs and says it would be nice if she could afford to have her hair washed and set once a week.

Her cousin, who already comes over and dyes her aunt's hair once a month, shakes her head. "He's loaded," she mutters.

And now this ingrate son won't float his mom for two extra hairdos a month! $24 bucks.

"I bailed him and an even dozen of his friends out that time they got in trouble," Bessie says, giving her visiting cousin a knowing look. "Lost a week's wages goin' with them to court and God knows how much money bailin' him out. And one of them boys was the preacher's son, too!"

Bessie's cousin looks at me while Bessie searches through an old black and white composition book to come up with her current bank balance. "He's an idiot!" she mouths.

You think?

I spend a half an hour consulting with the billing department only to find out later from the activity director that the son takes all of Bessie's extra money. This is why the cousin buys Bessie's clothing and snacks and why a grandson takes her home with him on Christmas.

Bessie even set this child up with his own business when his job got too physically demanding.

When I say I have to go, Bessie says "Oh, don't leave! Just stay here all evenin' and set with us." Her new dentures, a size too large for her mouth slip from side to side as Bessie struggles to smile and talk without losing her upper plate.

I hug her, remembering one of the past social workers telling me that Bessie's son now has a lovely vacation home in the mountains. I want to kick his ass.

Instead I come home and pause for a few moments in the doorways of each of my sons' rooms.

"Listen," I say. "If you two strike it rich and I, God forbid, wind up in a nursing home and want to get my hair done and it only costs $12 bucks a week, please don't be such a tight-ass you can't spring for a once a week cut and curl!"

"Huh?" they say.

"I mean it," I say. "Do you really think a measly $12 is too much to ask after all we've been through? I mean, I get my hair done now in the outside world and it costs about a hundred bucks so I really don't see that..."

"Why do you pay a hundred now?" the practical Youngest Unnamed One asks.

I sigh. "It's a long story," I say. "And I don't do it often, but mainly it's because I tried to do it myself for so long it took extra just to repair the damage and really, that's beside the damned point. Just promise me you won't let it come down to not even getting a $12 wash and set."

"Mother," the Oldest says, sighing the word in his best, long-suffering tone. "Of course we wouldn't do that!"

He is mentally telegraphing his brother the phrase I have heard him say again and again, "Just agree with her. It's easier. You always get all up into the details and then she goes on and on!"

I stand between their two rooms, looking at the backs of their heads because they are both on the computer while having this serious conversation with their sainted mother. I am trying to decide if it's worth the energy to walk into each boy's room and whop him upside the head like I usually do for emphasis.

But I am too tired to put forth the effort.

Besides, I am probably just being irrational.

Again.

All the Responsibility- Half the Time...Flying Solo

Ah, I see my friend, Christina, over at solomother.com shares the Insomnia Bug. She's not counting zebras but she is staring up at the ceiling some nights- with good reason. Christina writes about her experience as a single mom "starting over" with great poignancy and without a trace of self-pity. You really should check her out!

I think so many of us single moms are really a lot like trapeze artists- we fly through the air on a wing and a prayer, hoping against hope that when we reach out for that bar,or the proffered hand, it will be there and we will make it to safety because we are working without a net.

Sure, Christina looks down once in awhile, but she doesn't stay focused on that all too possible fall. Instead, she stays in the present, enjoying the small victories and celebrating the moments she and her boy have together. She values the valuable-the now- all the while keeping one eye on the future...and sometimes, just like all of us, she has a bit of trouble sleeping.

Counting Wild Dogs and Sad Sack Zebras Instead of Sheep

This late night insomnia is kicking my ass.

It's 1 a.m. I've got a full day of nursing homes starting somewhere around 6:30 tomorrow morning and I'm not good when I don't sleep.

Lately, as soon as my tired head hits the pillow, I wake up. I think about my house down the street and how it's falling apart before I can get it sold. I think about how long I can go on piecing together part-time jobs while what I really want to do is hole up somewhere and write. Then I worry about what I'll write and how I keep writing parts of books and never pushing them through to completion. I even worry about the legacy I'm leaving for my children. It's damned pitiful, this sorry-for-myself, late night, festival of angst.

I worry that one more interesting thought will never again occur to me or that I'm getting Alzheimers because I can't pull my memories together into a complete, interesting story. I think I may never be the next Eudora Welty or Bailey White.

Yawn. I have little patience with this kind of sad sack attitude.

There are better things to wonder about in my life.

I submit for your consideration- this:



In my weekend wanderings with my brother, while we are skulking around our old neighbors' backyards, leaning around the sides of decaying buildings to photograph our old house, we find this zebra.

It is sitting right behind our neighbor's garage, obviously placed with intent because of the rocks that frame the little tableau. Where it is, no one will see it, at least, not intentionally.

This zebra is about four feet away from the spot where the neighbor's kept their wild dog, Schnitzle, chained to his doghouse. I got too close to Schnitzle one time and the hyperactive, black furry monster lunged for me. I jumped back and in my haste impaled my leg on a rusty fence support. To this day, I have a triangular scar just behind my knee.

And now, there's a zebra watching over the long gone Schnitzle pad.

This can only mean one thing. Schnitzle is dead and buried under that Zebra. Has to be. That's why the black and white jackass looks so sad. If you had Schnitzle chewing your tail for all eternity, you'd adopt that zebra's facial expression.

I should know. I think the zebra feels a lot like I did after that fence episode- kind of ashamed for getting itself into such a mess and like it needs to keep its distance but can't on account of its stuck living in Schnitzle land.

Something happens when my brother and I get together. We bring out the best of the worst in each other.

We were on our way to a funeral, for pity's sake! It was a solemn occasion and from time to time, both of us felt tearful and nostalgic. But in between these stretches of sadness were the islands of total "badness."

We were on our way, an hour and 45 minutes early, to the family visitation and the funeral following. We'd allowed extra time to take pictures along the way of the important landmarks of our childhood.

Normal people do this.

Normal people, I am sure, do not pretend to be mob-connected developers looking to make a deal the current homeowners can't refuse.

But when you are dressed like this:



Accompanied by an older sister who assures you that every syllable you utter is totally hysterical:



It is not hard to find yourself standing in front of what was once one of two outdoor barbecues at our old house, gesturing expansively toward what was once your house, and the surrounding parcels of land, and talking in a thick Italian accent.



I stand beside him in a calf-length black velvet skirt, ivory cowgirl boots and an ivory sweater, holding a camera with an obscenely big telephoto lens and aiming it at the bedraggled mansion that was once our home.



John has a way of adjusting the knot in his tie as he shifts to stand in what can only be described as a menacing posture, a "Hey, whadda you lookin' at?" challenge. The fact that my brother wouldn't harm a flea is beside the point. When he slicks back his hair with gel, lifts a shaggy eyebrow and frowns, it looks like trouble waiting to happen.

When you see these two people aiming a telephoto lens at your new home, circling from all the surrounding properties and shooting away, all the while gesturing and posturing, I can see how they may have felt threatened.

I doubt this is why they fled the house, jumped into their van and sped off down Lancaster Avenue...but if we unwittingly caused these innocent homeowners any discomfort, me and my brother, Guido, wish to convey our deepest, person regards and regrets for any inconvenience to their personal space.

However, your home appears to need a lot of work and my brother and his associates would be happy to furnish their professional "services" should you wish to retain them. He's known around town as John "The Zapper," and is a licensed electrician...





But I digress...

We can't help ourselves. We can't play life straight. We are always imagining the possibilities in a situation and then play-acting it into reality, a much better reality than showing up like John Q. Normal and finding your old home has fallen even further into ruin than it was when the elderly spinster willed the dump to the church and they in turn used it as the pastor's manse.




In our day there were formal gardens and a gardener. There were neat tidy boxwoods, white trim, a polished black front door and a gleaming black wrought iron gate to welcome callers.

There was an orchard, a ball field where the senior apartments now stand. There were lilacs and hundreds of varieties of bulbs blooming each spring. But they are all gone now. Looking at the small few acres of land, I can tell that what I once saw as a vast, unlimited utopia was in reality much smaller than what my child's eye remembers.

Later, when we sit in the tiny country church, waiting for the funeral service to begin, this juxtaposition of time standing still versus reality again hits home.

The family files in...A girl so breathtakingly like my friend's sister at age 17 walks down the center aisle, grabs the hand of a little boy and leads him to the family pew. They are followed by children so familiar I am tempted to call out to them...but they are strangers...Strangers followed by older strangers...the family of my best childhood friend, Betsy. They are my childhood past and they are, we are, old.

I have the almost undeniable urge to run across the aisle, to touch the younger version of Betsy's sister, Susan, on the shoulder in hopes that when she turns around the recognition will be there. I don't want to sit with the old people.

I don't want to realize time is rushing ahead. Our parents' generation is dead or dying and we, the wild and young Woodstockers, have now become "Them," the old and out of touch.

Is it any wonder then that my brother and I become rebellious fools, denying our future with crazy caricatures and zany scenarios?

It is all- the loud music, the wild costumes, the phony accents-the dance of our denial.

Nessie is Alive and Well in Downingtown, PA.

I have so many stories to tell from my whirlwind 36 hr. trip up to my old home town.

But it's almost 2 a.m and while I am wired and think I'm not sleepy, I know I am tired and could never do these tales justice.

However, I must give you this one snippet before I call it a day-

My brother and I are on our way to a funeral.




We both have attention deficit disorder, but that's not why we leave an hour and 45 minutes early to travel 15 minutes to the church.

I tell him we need to go take pictures of "the old house" before we go to the church because after the service it will be too late. I have to drive back to Greensboro and it's a 9 hr. trip.

So...we head out to kick over the traces- including a brief stop at First Lake where John says I just have to see "the Alligators."

I do not believe Downingtown, Pa. will ever be known for its creative spirit. I believe this, in part, because they named the series of small lakes behind the old house, "First Lake, Second Lake, Third Lake, Fourth Lake and yes, Fifth Lake."

We kids were always afraid of the area over by the pump house because there the water was so deep, it never froze.



But the murky, deep water of the pump house was far more dangerous than even the grown-ups knew. We children believed, no, we knew, an evil monster, the twin of the Loch Ness monster, lived in the bottomless water beside the pump house.

It lurked beneath the dark, lake, just waiting for the grown-ups to tire of their children and wander off. Then, we children were quite sure, the monster would emerge to "get" us.

The adults laughed this idea off, but today, I finally found all the proof I need. Nessie's twin lives...In fact, Nessie's twin lives and breeds!



In their infinite wisdom, the city fathers, faced with too many marauding Canadian Geese and a law prohibiting them from shooting the birds, decided to invest in floating alligator heads with glow in the dark eyes.



After my brother points this out and I am done falling on the ground laughing, I ask "Did it work, John?"

He shakes his head, looking disgusted. "What do you think? Of course not."

After all, these are the same city fathers who have renamed the lakes. They're now called "The Ponds."



I wander over to snap a picture of First Lake because this is where I learned to ice skate.

I can still see my father skating backward figure-eights and beckoning me to follow him out on to the bumpy, frozen surface of the small pond.

It is a very cold Christmas night. Along the bank, someone has built a fire and we all gather around it, our cheeks bright pink from the icy wind and excitement.

I have brand new skates and my dad is going to teach me to skate.

He is grinning, completely happy, a boy again himself as he teases me out farther and farther away from the safety of the shore. I am his awkward, uncoordinated eldest daughter- a gosling among swans.

I am his Doubting Thomas, frail and afraid, but when I see him so happy, his eyes lit with the exuberance of this magical night, I forget I can't dance, can't run, can't even sway to the beat of his funny jitterbug swing...I push off after him, delighting in this sudden freedom from my normal, clumsy movements.

Dad skates backward, in graceful figure-eights. I follow along, imprinting on his crisp tracks and sure flourishes. I stare into his eyes and forget to look down at my feet.

There are no demanding parishoners to distract him tonight. There are no cracks in the ice, no danger because my dad is with me.

It is a rare, special night that I will remember always- a treasure that makes First Lake worth photographing even now, forty years later...

One Week Without the Unnamed Ones- Day 6

So the Unnamed Ones sent me a text message this morning:

"Going shark fishing tonight."

I replied:

"On shore or on boat? P.S U no ur nuts, right? lu!"

Four hours later they answered:

"Boat. Yeah, we no!"

But it was too late. The damage had been done. In order to distract myself from the image of Jaws rising up out of the sea to swallow my boys whole, I was already sitting in the chair of a strange, new hairstylist getting my hair whacked off.

I'd show you a picture but then the FBI would just put it up on my wanted poster and make apprehending me that much easier.

Actually, I have a story about that salon but I don't have time to write it. I'm packing, leaving out in the morning for the town outside Philly where I grew up. It'll be a lightning round trip- up one day, back to NC the next, but there's a funeral I need to attend and a very good friend I need to hug. So, if I'm not here for a day or so it'll mean my brother doesn't have wireless and/or my sister-in-law has perfected her Margarita recipe.

But I'll take pictures...just not of my hair!

One Week Without the Unnamed Ones- Day 5

The truth is, I get as much done when the Unnamed Ones are home as I do when they're away...The only difference is, I just plain miss my boys...and now, it's worse because I even miss the Witch!

But...I did finish cleaning out and putting back the office closet and its contents.

And I wrote about 11 pages. I'm trying a new way of writing for awhile. It's called the "Don't plot it- just put the people on the page and see what happens next."

Darlene, my Flea Sister, was with me up in D.C when the approach came to me. Of course, as you may remember, I was sick and stuck in amongst 3500 therapists at a psychotherapy conference. I think the therapists helped. For one thing, if one of the presenters hadn't bored the living poop out of me, I wouldn't have started writing- inventing 2 characters to entertain me as I went along.

Secondly, I think the influence of 3500 therapists shows very clearly in this new writing technique. I put the characters on the page and try to figure them out as I type along after them.

I know...get to the good stuff, Nance, you're boring us....




All right. I went to pick up my massive quantity of jelly beans, all tucked snug in their little beribboned jelly jars. Bessie was nowhere in sight but the rest of the crew was gathered in the activity room, waiting for the afternoon's storytelling session.

As near as I could tell, they all appeared to be sleeping, or at best in a post lunch stupor.

Milly, a white-haired lady with blood-thinner bruises all over her arms and a lap rug covering her legs rolled up and squinted up at me through her glasses.

Most days she smiles and says "There you are, honey! I've been looking everywhere for you!" But not today. Today Milly rolls up, raises one eyebrow and says acerbically, "Well, it's about time! I haven't seen you in forever!"

"Well, Milly," I said, "It was only yesterday, remember?"

Milly ignores this in order to get right down to what's on her mind.

"Are you gonna clip my toenails, or what?" she demands.

Now, usually I'll go along with whatever they throw at me but I have this thing about feet- I don't let people play with mine and in return, I won't play with theirs! So before I could stop myself, I'd said, "Heck no, I won't clip your toenails. I love you, Milly, but you'd better save that for the podiatrist."

"Humph!" Milly snorts, like "what good are you then, girl?!"

The activity assistant is sitting in her office, reading the paper, probably stalling story hour until she feels inspired.

"She knows you aren't the podiatrist," she says, never looking up from her paper.

But Milly's had enough of our foolishness. She starts rolling out of the room, headed down the hallway.

"Milly!" the assistant calls. "Milly, where you goin'?"

"I'll be back!" Milly calls over her shoulder...but the assistant knows better.

"Aw, she's goin' back to her room and gonna climb up in that easy chair of hers," she grouses. "She loves her some chair!"

But I know the real truth. I've let Milly down. Not only was I not the podiatrist, I didn't even have the sense to help her save face by pretending to be the podiatrist.

I walk back out to the car, put down the top and drive away with my jelly beans. I know Milly will have forgotten all about my betrayal by the next time she sees me, but I won't.

Getting old, losing bits and pieces of your memory and your life, is terribly hard. It's full of pain and misery and the grief of losing your future and your past.

Compared to that, becoming a podiatrist is the very least I can do.

One Week Without the Unnamed Ones- Day 4

Okay, I've made so much progress left to my own devices, I decided to send myself to work- in hopes maybe they could do some thing with me.


Nope. I got as much accomplished there as I did here at home!

However, I learned a lot more about my old guys than I usually do...just by resolving to sit absolutely still and see what happened...

I learned:

Mild, sweet-mannered Mary was bad to fight in high school. She didn't like it when folks got "snobbish."

"I know how they do! Black folk do it too," she cried. "Just like this other Mary I knew. She weren't nobody! I knew her from second grade right on up through high school. Then she started goin' with this man and acting like she all better than us! She used to pick on Blondell. We called her T.B on account of she was so little!"

"Why T.B?" I asked.

Mary looked at me like I was stupid. "I don't know! On account of she was small, that's all I know! Anyway, that bad Mary, she was pickin' on Blondedell,I mean, T.B, one day and I said 'Leave her alone!' And don't you know that witch turned and started to slap on me?!"

Mary snorts, balls up an arthritic fist and shows it to me. "I punched her right in the mouth! Knocked her front teeth out!"

"You did that? Mary! Not you!" I said.

Mary smiled. "Yeah, honey! I was a good fighter!"

"You know, that girl's dead now. That married man, he died, then his wife died and ole Blondell, she gone too, now."

At this point Bessie comes into the room. She's a frail little old lady, walking with a cane and holding onto a jelly jar filled with...jelly beans. She spots me from the hallway, sitting with Mary, and she knows I'm a sucker.

"Hey, lookit here," she says, wandering into the room. "Look what we made in activities!"

She gives me this smile that has been unnerving me every time she does it- at least for the past month or so- since Bessie got her new dentures. They're about 2 sizes too large and they slip when she talks or smiles, so when she's talking, you can't help but watch her teeth slide one way as her lips go the other way and well, just forget trying to be a good listener who makes eye-contact! It's all mouth with Bessie.

She waits until I've about drooled all over the jar and praised the beauty of her work before she sets the hook in me real good.

"We're sellin' 'um for our activity trips," she says. "You want one?"

I ask how much. She says $2, which seems like a stone cold deal to me, so I say, "I'd like 5."

"Five? Five!" Bessie clutches at her chest, starts hyperventilating (I kid you not- I couldn't make this up...) She backs up, out into the hallway where she stares anxiously at the activity room door, like she needs rescuing. "Oh, Lord! Oh, dear! They're gone. They went home! We can't make no more til tomorrow! Five! Oh Lord!"

I assure Bessie it's no big deal. I'll be glad to come back tomorrow and let the Activity director handle this monster order and, once she's calmed down, Bessie wanders off to get the nurse to give her another "breathing treatment."

Mary waits until she's wandered a few feet away before she says, "I'm so glad me and her made up."

I nod, remembering that for a short time Mary and Bessie were roommates but Bessie's a mite bossy and Mary doesn't want any old white ladies mistaking her for their maid or worse, their child, so the two parted ways...peacefully, I thought.

"Yeah," Mary says. "I was out in the hallway in my wheelchair and I just leaned over and took her hand and told her I was real sorry for the harsh things I said. And she said, Oh now Mary,we all say harsh things we don't mean when we're angry. I'm sorry too.'"

Mary smiles. "You know, she's in with a lady now, smells real bad."

Mary nods her head, like what goes around comes around, and adds, "I even let Bessie borrow my room spray to clear out the smell in her room. And to think I was going to get her. I really was."

Now, I must admit, I wasn't paying close attention when Mary said this. All I did was nod, until Mary said something about being in her room while the aides and her nurse were dressing her one morning and she kept telling them to hurry up. "I told them, I got to be ready before Bessie comes out her new room cause I'm gonna run her over! I'd heard enough of her mess, you know?"

I nod, thinking Mary wouldn't hurt a gnat.

"Them aides was all laughin'. But when Bessie came out her room, there I was! I dug in on the wheels and took off after her and if Katrina hadn't come flyin' down the hallway and grabbed my chair, I woulda nailed her! I surely would! I was this close!" She shows me a small 6" gap between her two hands.

Mary smiles, the same sweet little old lady smile she always smiles, only now I see the rotweiler in her.

"I think back on it now and I sure am glad that Katrina stopped me. I just think what they might've done to me if I'd hit Bessie. They might've kicked me out of here. Then what would I do?"

Note Mary doesn't say she might've hurt her dear friend, uh-huh, she's worried about her own ass!

"Yeah, that Bessie's a sweet thing," Mary says smiling softly to herself. She stares down at her hands and I know she's reliving the feel of her wheelchair's thin rubber tires as she pushed off, determined to murder Bessie. I wonder to myself what might've happened had Mary been left to her own devices!

I make a mental note never to turn my back on dear, sweet Mary, especially when she's up and out of bed, roaming the halls in her lightning fast wheelchair.

One Week Without the Unnamed Ones- Day 3

Good news!

No other dogs have shed hair to save their own hides.

I went Easter candy shopping yesterday and with my coupons, was able to purchase jelly beans for virtually nothing!

Good news, right?

Better news...I don't like green, yellow or,particularly, black jelly beans...and those are the only ones left! Looks like I'm back on my no sugar diet!

And remember one of my goals for the week was to clean out a closet?

Well, I cleaned out the closet in my office- see?!




I don't recall any promises about putting it back together though...maybe next vacation.

I also wrote at least a page on one of my novels.

See how well things progress when I'm left to my own devices!

Oh, and I remembered I'd promised to make Mertis a pie to take to work for this morning, so in the middle of the night I baked a scrumptious apple-walnut-crumb pie. This meant I had to stay up while it baked, so I worked on the Sunday crossword. Surely that counts as a literary endeavor?

Seven Days Without the Unnamed Ones- Days 1 and 2

Seven days without kids.

Oh, the dreams I have of all I can accomplish!

I'll clean out and organize-

My attic.

My home office.

My closet.

My life.

And I'll finish 2 novels.

See, I don't have overly ambitions goals for my week. I'm a realist. What's organizing the entire house and writing 2 novels in seven days while also working 2 jobs, when you're somebody's mother? It's a cake walk, that's what!

So I thought you'd like to see what I've accomplished thus far-

Bailey the Dog Before:








Bailey the Dog After:

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It took hours. I had to use all the clipper attachments and he still looks rat-chewed.

Oh, well...I mopped the kitchen, sunroom and den floors too...and went triple coupon shopping at Lowes.

Don't worry about the 2 novels- I'll do one tomorrow and one Wednesday!