For Ben

There are many occasions to commemorate, celebrate and validate this month. We've just finished with 9/11, my father and my son's birthday are coming up on the 24th, but for my dear friend Sally the 16th is the sad date that commemorates her beloved grandson Ben, who left this earth far to soon one year ago (on that date). He was an avid sportman and skateboarder and an admirable teenager with many friends. I remember the day I learned that Sally's lovely boy died and I couldn't help thinking then that there is something inherently wrong about a parent or grandparent burying a child.

To honor Ben, Sally is going to give $100 towards a skateboard for the person who wins her giveaway. To enter, all you have to do is leave a comment on her site and you will be entered into the drawing. This is such a generous thing for her to do to honor her sweet grandson, and I'm sure Ben is aware of the generosity. So, please go over to http://www.whispering-hope.blogspot.com/
at Whispering Hope and leave your name. Ben would be so pleased.

How we came to have so many Pomegranate plants

It's Saturday and Labor day is upon us. Mac is out in the garden with the tiller preparing the beds for our Pomegranate bushes. He is so proud of them, as he grew them himself this past spring, from seed. We laugh about the efforts from last year because he says I sabotaged him at every turn. See, he prepared this nice long planter with lovely compost and spread the pomegranate seed over it, then covered it with a layer of compost and set it next to the shed to get plenty of sunlight and make sure of water. That was February of 2008

I came along and saw this lovely planter of great looking dirt, went into the garden shed and got my little sack of Hibiscus seed I'd gathered. I took the trowel and worked up the the dirt, spread my seed and covered them gently with a blanket of potting mix. I sat back and admired my work.

In April, I was agog at all the hibiscus plants and wondered at Mac's constant comment that they didn't look much like pomegranates. I snickered, thinking "why would hibiscus look like pomegranate?" Out loud I said, "well if they looked like cotton plants or even okra plants I wouldn't be surprised. You know, since they are the same family?" He only gave me that "get out of here" look...you know the one. Later on it dawned on me that he really thought he had grown pomegranates. I wasn't sure how to tell him that he (we) had grown hibiscus. I mean, couldn't he tell from the leaves? Why did he keep going over to the planter and talking to himself?

I picked out spots all around the place where I wanted them to be planted. As we sat on the porch drinking our first cup of coffee, I brought up the identity crisis his pomegranate plants were having. "When did you plant your seed, then? You didn't mention it to me at the time, " I said (sipping carefully, eyes cutting to my right). He thought about it for a bit, then said to me, "you know I put them in there early February. I can't figure out why they look so much like cotton plants. " He shook his head, as though to clear that dark thought from his mind. I drew one leg under me, admiring the red nail polish on my toenails, nodded wisely and said, "that could be because someone overplanted your planter with hibiscus."

I think they heard his shout of "WHATTTTTTTTTTT?" clear into downtown Jefferson. I tried to explain that I had seen the planter, it was so nicely prepared and that I thought about how great it would be to propagate the lovely Hibiscus he had brought me from Alabama that I just went ahead and took it over. I never dreamed that he had planted a thing in it. Really!

Likely story. Yep, that was his answer! I swear, I didn't know the planter was loaded! Ummm...sort of puts me in mind of the old song, I Didn't know the Gun was Loaded. But it is the truth I tell you!

So anyway, there was a planter that sat mutely by the south wall of the shed
fresh compost had been added by the master of the house ONCE AGAIN. But now,
signs were stuck in beside it that dared the housemouse to TOUCH ONE GRAIN OF DIRT THEREIN! Signs like crucifixes were fixed to the pot as though I were a vampire and This Means You and GO AWAY proliferated the outer parameters. I looked at him in all innocence and once more insisted that I DIDN'T KNOW.

His answer? "This time you do!." Yes, I suppose I did! But anyway, I hope you are as proud of his endeavors as I am! Here they are. Not Hibiscus plants, but lovely well tended grown from seed Pomegranate bushes! Properly tended and transplanted into larger cells and ready to be put into the bed. He has green fingers, you see. All those years as a Sailor and who knew he was meant to be a farmer all along?

Living in the Past

I don't know why my mind has been "harking" back to the past so much these days. Last night my dreams were filled with my grandmother, my mother and my Aunt Florence and Uncle May. No, that's not a misprint, his name was Arnold May Sellers and I believe it was a family name...he was called May. In my dream I could see them all and chatted with them as though I were 8 years old again and in the center of their hearts. By the way, all these beloved people are no longer on this side of the veil.

Like I said, the past has been on my mind quite a bit lately and yesterday while chatting with Lee I asked her if she remembered the Betsy McCall paper dolls. She assured me that she remembered them well, having played with them at her grandmother's house. I remember playing with my Betsy McCall on the floor of our apartment in Washington, DC. I was about 4 at the time, and I know you find it hard to believe that I can remember these things, but I do. I remember my toy ambulance with working lights and sirens from that era, too. But Betsy was special. I had my little scissors (metal not plastic) and waited eagerly for my mother to finish the magazine so that I could acquire my "pasted to hard board" Betsy some lovely new clothes. Now, my mother sewed, she and all her sisters learned to make their own clothes when Home Ec meant just that. Home Economics! Mama sewed beautifully and collected patterns for our clothes from McCall's huge drawers located in the cloth shops she frequented. Betsy's dresses were often found in the deep long drawers located under the cutting tables. So yesterday, Betsy was as real in my mind as she had once been in my hands.

Cooties. Do you remember the game Cooties? Doesn't sound very nice, does it? But it was a game along with so many others...the card games we learned like Old Maid, War and Rook. I loved it when my older sister Holly would come down off her high horse long enough to play a game of Rook with her annoying little sister. It never lasted long, but I felt special while it was going on. We played Monopoly, of course. It was the lucky player who wound up with not only Boardwalk, but Park Place , too. Usually that indicated a winner...but not always! And the year I got my really nice Bingo set with the turning basket and genuine bake lyte bingo numbers...wow! I was forever trying to get a game of Bingo organized!

But Scrabble has forever and always been my favorite game. I introduced it to my boys as soon as they learned to spell. First it was Scrabble Junior, then they became such good spellers that we packed it away for the real deal. While some families get together to play poker, we crowd around a Scrabble board. Now, Arianna is included in this fast paced game of words and meanings. Lee and I play online nearly everyday. It's something I look forward to.



But of all my toys of the past, Betsy McCall stands out in memory and I can't say why. I don't know why. But I found her online last night and she's about to become mine again. Of course, I'll let Arianna play with her. I want her to have such a memory, too.

Why I'm Sporting a Shiner...And Alla answers

The Porch...before the glider!

This is a story about clumsy. Clumsy is as clumsy does. And it's also a story about Good Sister. You all remember my wonderful Good Sister, my sister of the heart, not sister of the blood? She of Quincey fame (a lady Medical Examiner) and morgue intrigue? Well, I am happy to say that she is back on the dating scene and seems completely over the lying miserable cad who captured her heart then stomped all over it with his big hobnail boots...no wait, he wore Harris Tweed jackets and blue jeans, so perhaps they were just boots, no hobnails...the lying dog (sorry to dogdom) who claimed to be single but was NOT. Makes me grit my teeth and ball my fists just to think of it. (And go in search of my gun for crying out loud!) Cad was not my word of choice, but my granddaughter reads this blog...have to use some decorum.

So anyway, once I convinced Good Sister to stand on her back porch and scream "NEXT" and many nights on the phone listening while she cried, suddenly one day she didn't cry. She talked about going out. And gave me the gentleman's name and car description and tag number. Okay, you gotta know that women who have anything to do with law enforcement know what type of world we live in and that we trust few...so if I don't hear from her I know whose car she left in complete with tag and color and car body condition...and we have a picture of said date in my data base...it's the way we roll. So anyway, just as I keep up with Good Sister's social life, she keeps up with my physical one.

So she calls me on Thursday night to tell me that she is going out, who with, and where...I ask about the two kittens she got from me (named Tweedledee and Tweedledum) and she says they are doing fine and she is making introductions to Shadow and Butch (her two dogs). She asks me what I have been up to. Since I am a mass of bruises and pain, I hesitate. She hears the hesitation in my voice.

"What have you done?" she asks. "I don't want to tell you, you'll fuss, " say I. I can see her eyes narrowing, through the phone. "Don't make me come over there, because I will, you know!" Yes, I know. I laugh nervously. "Well, I sort of...okay okay...I fell. I fell really hard."
"You FELL? Where? Did you go to the hospital?" So I began to explain...

I can't leave anything alone. I am never happy with the arrangement of a room or a porch or even a yard. I rearrange furniture and plants and decorations. Mac says it's a good thing he's not blind, he'd never know where to find his chair. He pities Mindy Lou (the blind dog) although she adapts quite well to my madness. The glider that was under the big Sweet Gum tree with several chairs had caught my eye. Mac was cutting grass and I took it in my head to move the glider onto the front porch. It would be much more convenient for sitting. So I went down and took the big thing apart and moved it piece by heavy piece to the front porch. I took the small table and two yard chairs down to replace the glider. Mac wasn't amazed that I had managed to do this while he was cutting grass. He wasn't even surprised. He just wondered what had taken me so long to get a wild *ss idea about the accoutrement's of the front porch.

So Wednesday morning he tells me that he wants to go to Bethune (a small town in Kershaw County near us) to get a replacement bowl for the birdbath. I'm chattering away, grabbing my purse and happy to be going to the huge concrete yard where I can browse and buy, walk out the front door when suddenly I feel myself falling and sliding and head bouncing off wood. Mac is suddenly next to me, helping me to turn over and I see his face and it is white. He is looking at my head. "Oh my GOD," he says, " are you alright? Your head has a goose egg the size of Cleveland on it!" I begin to tick off the signs of concussion as he helps me to my feet...I didn't lose consciousness, I am not nauseous...I rush into the guest bath and look into the mirror...pupils are normal...but MY GOD! The bulge on my head gives me pause. And terror. I quick like a bunny (been waiting a long time to use that term) hurry to the kitchen and grab my ankle wrap from the freezer...and apply it to my head! Mac is behind me as though he is going to catch me in case I fall. Where was he ten minutes ago I want to ask...testily! But I don't. He's worried enough as it is.

"So, " I am telling GS, "I tripped on the footing of the glider...I had just earlier decided I needed to move it down further away from the front door but hadn't done it yet. I caught my foot and the only thing that saved me from sliding on down the steps was the gate at the end of the porch. My head broke the slide." I laughed. She didn't. "Did you go to the hospital?" I heard her demanding to hear a yes to her answer, but she didn't get it. "The darnedest thing, " I began and she interrupted..."DID YOU GO TO THE HOSPITAL?"

"Ummm...well, no...not really. You see when I kept peeping under the ice wrap I could see the bulge going down and then Marty Horton showed up out of the blue!" (Marty is a Paramedic I had once worked with , one I hadn't seen in two years...now go figure that one out!) "So I say to Marty, boy am I glad to see you! I told Marty what had happened and he looked at the knot on my head, the bruises on my shoulder, the scrape on my knee shined a light in my eyes and pronounced me capable of going and sitting down without fear of dying right away. But he told me if anything changed, head ache or nausea , loss of consciousness...get to the ER immediately...okay?"

She allowed as to how since it had happened the day before and I was still as sassy as ever, she supposed it was okay. "But, there is this...today I have a black eye, " I told her.
You know, I could hear her pulling keys out of her purse, walking down steps, car door opening...and I knew she had to see this one for herself! God may have sent me Marty, but nothing takes the place of a sister.

Me...sporting my shiner...sans makeup!














And an addendum to this post, from my new dear friend Alla, I just wanted to share it with you all!

Dear Sandi,when I saw "Hello, Alla" in your blog, I was amazed ,and this page appeared the whole week ago,the time flies, I`ve just listened to the music in your blog. And I was reading this story in tears, I remember your mother and her kindness to me, I was so sorry when she fell ill and when Toni informed me of her death on 28.06.01.I can`t stop crying even now.

Yes, I am reading your book every evening, I am finding a lot of interesting and wise thoughts and ideas about life in them.Oh, I am saying Thank you very much for the dedication of this page to me!

And the story about school room desks seems unreal but the idea is great, and the teacher is a genius .The WW2 in my country is called The Great Patriotic War, 20 million people were killed, and children must know who paid their young lives for the possibility for the children of future generations to take their seats at the school desks.You did the right thing of passing this story on.

Yes, blog is a good idea when you have what to say to other people.I`ll think about it.

I am still very awkward at the computer. I hope I`ll learn soon.

By the way, it was Tony who we began to communicate with, then she shared my letters she found funny with your mother, I called her Grace. She had such an ideal, beautiful handwriting.

I`ll tell you why the title "the crazy cat lady" appeals to me so much, that`s because I had a cat, his name was Kuzma( the stress on the last letter) and he lived 19 years with us then he died in my hands, it was a real grief. I said I would never ever keep any animals in my home, but my son brought two rats ,bought them in a pet-shop. Now feeding them.They would be absolutely nice if not their ugly tails.

Love

Alla

Welcoming Alla

I find that the older I get, the less it takes to make me happy. In my youth possessions and the acquiring of them gave me blissful moments. I could take a lovely crystal snowball into my hands, turn it to catch each facet of light, examine every nuance of color that erupted as the sun burst upon the surface and smiles would wreathe my face. That it belonged to me made me the happiest. That it was beautiful came in second. If I somehow lost or broke the object of beauty, it would bring me the strangest sadness. The sadness never lasted long because there was always something prettier, something harder to attain that would make me happy again. That was me as a selfish teenager. When I married I treasured my young husband for who he was, as well as what he was. It was a partially grown up feeling. I had just turned twenty. At twenty three when I held my first born son, the feelings that came over me were overwhelming. I couldn't stop looking at his tiny hands and feet, at the abundance of dark hair that covered his head, at the smiles he offered so soon and so often.

My second born brought me just as much joy and I marveled at how his face worked when he slept. His eyelids would twitch and his lips would echo the involuntary movements of those heavy lashed pale lids. I always wondered if he was dreaming. We were not sophisticated parents who spoke in full sentences of Mr Shakespeare or news of the world. We babbled baby talk and goo goo faces were the theme of the first two years. I treasured my babies and my husband above all else. I was finally grown up.

As they grew up and grew away, my friends became new treasures to me. Some I have kept for years, others have moved away and out of our lives. While we miss them, that we have lost contact is not life threatening. Should we hear from them again we would take up where we had left off. Maturity came along unexpectedly.

Mama had a pen pal that I believe she shared with my sister, Toni. Her name was Alla and she grew to love this young Siberian mother as she loved the many people who came into her life. She loved people above all. We learned from example. Mama wanted to send Alla things that would benefit her in life. She loved sending her little gifts and loved the gifts that Alla sent to her, as well. Her nesting dolls (she has several sets) were her treasures. After Mama died, I missed Mama's stories of Alla her friend who lived in Siberia. One day not so long ago, I mentioned to Toni that I wondered how Alla was doing. Imagine my surprise to learn that Toni still kept up with her and her family. She told me that she had sent Alla a copy of my book and from there that Alla was now reading my blog. It made me so happy to know that Alla was well and now had a computer of her own with which to keep up with the world! I only wish that the technology had been such when Mama was alive. What joy it would have given her to talk to her dear friend on a daily basis.

So, I have grown considerably from the child that I once was where things were important and people were afterthoughts. I am so thankful for a loving teaching family of Grandparents and Parents who taught us that ownership may be nice, but friendship is more constant.

I'd like to say "hello Alla! " I welcome you warmly to blog land and encourage you to start a blog of your own. I'll be a faithful follower!

August 4th...Or Supergirl's Ordeal

So as I posted last, Supergirl had her little operation yesterday. We received a call at 4:30 a to tell us no need for a wakeup call..."Grandma, I'm on my way to the hospital, so don't call to wake me up. Are you and Grandpa going to come here?"

I assured her we would be on the way soon. We left here about 8 a and headed up to Florence to McLeod's Hospital.

She still hadn't been taken into surgery but we weren't allowed to go up to holding. Going into the cafeteria, we got coffee and a roll and waited for Michael and Anna to come down. They joined us at 10:30 to tell us that she was talking up a storm as they wheeled her towards surgery. Typical Arianna.

So, here is Supergirl, not a happy camper, but a brave strong girl who never cried once. I can't figure out why hospitals only have grape and orange Popsicles. Would banana be such a budget breaker? Or raspberry? Or cherry?

Thanks all of you, my pals, for being concerned about our little sweetie...her mom and dad enjoyed reading all your comments. She will be reading them for herself soon.

The Day of the Tonsils...Removal In Progress

The Grandgirl has an important date with destiny on Monday, the 3rd of August. Following in the footsteps (throatprints?) of her forefathers and mothers, her tonsils have become her worst enemy. We have family stories about the trips to hospitals to have the offending appendages removed. None are pretty. No names have been changed. No one is innocent.

I was in the fourth grade. Having just gotten over my umpteeth bout with tonsilitis, I was told that we had to do something about the situation. Nothing was explained as to just what we were going to do about it, but the whispered conferences between parents and grandparents became more intent after the last round of penicillin shots and being chased down by the Grandmother so she could "mop" my throat. You see, there was a medication back then called Gentian Violet. My grandmother found it to be the best antiseptic for throats since Merthiolate. If you said your throat was sore, out came the big purple bottle and the big cotton swab. She's say, "open wide, let me look at those tonsils" and Bob's your uncle, you found yourself gagging and spitting purple. It dyed your entire mouth, teeth included. We dared not admit to a sore throat within her hearing. If anyone was being asked if their throat was sore by Mammy, there would be another grandchild behind her signaling like a demented windmill to say nothing!

Daddy said that Mammy was going to kill one of us with the Gentian Violet one day. I remember once when I returned home with purple teeth him saying to my mother, "she does know that's horse remedy for wounds, right?" Mind you, this is the same woman who gave us turpentine on sugar cubes before we went into the woods to prevent redbug infestations. I fully understand the concept of old wives tales and for the life of me, don't understand how so many of them attained the distinction of old wives.

So one day, Mama picked me up early at school. She told me we were going shopping. And we did. She bought me the cutest pair of pajamas and a nifty robe. Now, we were children who never slept in anything but our underwear and one of Daddy or Daddy Dwight's (the Grandfather) old teeshirts. Pajamas were considered a waste of money. When we left Belk's, Mama said we were going to visit Daddy at the Hospital. He worked at Hamlet Hospital, in Hamlet North Carolina with Dr. Bill James. So when we arrived, we went and sat in the office and Dr. Bill explained to me why I was really there. Okay, so there should be a cartoon of me about here......showing me with tears exploding out my eyes and wailing and foot kicking, arm thrashing and head twisting all going on at the same time. Okay, so after about 2 seconds of that (Mama had one of these looks that could wither a tomato on the vine) I agreed to the procedure but only if Daddy was the one who put me under. It was agreed all around and I was admitted. The next morning, the dirty deed was done and all hail the AMA, I was soon on the way to not being sick with tonsillitis ever again. Of course, my throat would still get sore every so often, but that's the way of life.

Michael was cursed with the same set of rotten tonsils as his mother. His ears stayed infected along with the tonsils and we were constantly at the Doc's. So, finally on his 12th birthday, they decided that the tonsils have to go. I took him to meet the surgeon, Dr. Firestein, who explained to Michael the situation he was now in. "You see Mike, your tonsils are your friends. They protect you by filtering out all kinds of bacteria and germs that would other wise cause you some sickness that we'd have to treat aggressively. " He pulled down a chart showing a little army, complete with helmets and guns, that was supposed to be the last defense of the body fort. He looked at Michael and said, "the bad news, son, is that your army has defected. They've turned on you, boy plain and simple. We need to pull out, now." And so that night, Michael was admitted to the hospital and the offending army was annihilated.

Arianna has had the misfortune to inherit the dreaded defecting army. We have known this for a while now. Michael and Anna have put off the surgery about as long as they can. The snoring and sleep apnea from the swelling has finally put paid to the situation. So on Monday, the last shot in the war against sore throats, inflamed adenoids and achy ears will be fired. We were going through some paper work today and I came across a card that I had written to Michael on the occasion of his Tonsillectomy. I wrote this (black ink as befits the occasion) for him to cheer him up:

On the Occasion of Michael's Tonsillectomy


Where oh where have my tonsils gone?
where or where can they be?
my throats on fire and my spitter don't work
why did they do this to me???

The Doctor said they had to go
did it have to be so soon?
they were all in a rush to get me tied down...
here in this hospital room...

Oh, here they are my tonsils
old friends
they really aren't very far
bobbing around and having a swim
by the bed
right here in a jar

Love Mom

So I find this ancient card and show it to Mac, who reads it solemnly, looks up at me and says
"don't show it to Arianna till Tuesday."

Monday Monday...OMG it's Tuesday!

Monday a week ago I had the the fantastic opportunity of addressing a group of lovely ladies and gentlemen at the Hampton B. Allen Public Library in Wadesboro, North Carolina. I know, I know, doesn't it just sound like I traveled hours and hours for this delectable event? (Delectable because they served lunch!) Actually, it only took me about 45 minutes to get there, if that. The director, Phoebe Medlin (another new friend for me, woohoo!) had invited me to speak at their Lunch in the Stacks Author Talk. Now, since I can hardly refuse an opportunity to speak while others are having lunch (talk about a captive audience!) I accepted with great appreciation. Nothing builds an author's confidence more than knowing that others are actually interested in your work.

I parked with little trouble and admired the well kept campus and entered through the front door. There I introduced myself as the guest lecturer and two young men came forward and took the box containing my books from me and directed me to follow them. Phoebe came forward to introduce herself, took me to the back and there explained that I would give my talk while the guests ate their lunch. Wonderful! I took my place behind the podium and watched as Sheriff Tommy Allen entered the room. Phoebe had told me that the Sheriff, as a Friend of the Library, wanted to introduce me. I had of course met him when I worked for the Chesterfield County Sheriff, Kenny Welch, but we had become friends just in the past few months. He opened with the info he had collected about cats...cats do what they want, cats love attention but only on their terms, cats expect what they want to be served up as soon as possible...if they don't eat it then, just put it away, like Arnold Schwarzenegger r, they'll be back. In other words, the Sheriff concluded that he had discovered that cats were just tiny women in fur coats.

I couldn't be insulted, I had to agree with his assessment, although I did make a weak effort with, "oh no you didn't!" But by then he had turned to me and was introducing me warmly to the dozen or so ladies in the audience. I began my talk with how my family had a long history with Sheriff's both in this county and state and others. Most of the history is good...but a former Sheriff of Anson County wanted to arrest my Great Great Grandmother, Nancy Johnson, with ever so much fervor. According to my mother, the story went like this. Granny Johnson had lost her husband during the civil war. I believe (I could be wrong) that it was something innocuous like pneumonia or measles that carried him out, but in the mean time the young widow had mouths to feed. So she began to make and sell liquor. She would load the wagon and drive across the state line into Anson County to ply her trade. She had heard that on her next trip the Sheriff would be waiting on her, so she packed the wagon carefully. She loaded on sacks of corn and dried beans, a bit of this and that, even a crate of chickens...the kegs of liquor were placed directly beneath the wagon seat and as she perched herself upon it, she was careful to spread her skirts over the seat and onto the floor. As she approached the State line leading into Anson County, sure enough, there were the Sheriff and his men and he announced in no uncertain terms that they would be searching the wagon for contraband. She smiled sweetly, (as I was told) and wagging a cautionary finger at him said, "Sheriff, search the wagon of this poor widow woman and be damned, but don't let one finger of you or your men come within an inch of my skirt tail!" And so she was saved by her intelligent assessment of the situation of the times. And lived to sell another day and tell the tale.

As I said, I was impressed by the library itself, and the ladies who came to the Lunch in the Stacks. I learned that several were actually reading my blog, which warmed me greatly. One, a Doctor of Education, was telling me about her own website and I took down the address. Misty, if you are reading this, I have to have a personal invitation from you, so please could you do that? Just send me an e-mail (digby@shtc.net) so I can visit.


In the hallway leading to the lunching area is a case with dolls of the First Ladies as dressed for the Inaugural Ball. They have every first lady, up to Mamie Eisenhower. They have all been donated by people of the county. Now, not many of the dolls actually look like the person they represent (I don't believe that Mamie was blonde, I could be wrong but I think I'm right). They are simply dolls, some ceremic, others actual dolls, and the dresses have been fashioned as the dress worn by the first ladies. Now, if anyone of you out there can help our Phoebe complete her collection, would you be so kind as to e-mail her at phoebe.medlin@ncmail.net and tell her what you have in mind. Click on the picture to enlarge it.

As I was preparing to leave, the young men who had helped me before, packed up what few books I had left and offered to carry them to my truck. As Tommy and I left, he directed me to a side hall where there was an elevator. Now, this may sound very silly, but I was so impressed to see an actual working elevator in a library...of course our library in Chesterfield County is only on one floor and not nearly as large as the Hampton Library. Phoebe, you do a great job! Keep up the good work.

Publish Post

A Week of Thrills and Chills....

Last week was a winner of a week. I had the delight of visits from two of my favorite girls, Arianna and Haley. Arianna is our granddaughter and Haley our Great Niece. She calls us Grandma and Grandpa, too...we don't mind a bit. The girls are very close in age and interests so the fun was insured from the beginning. The Pageland Watermelon Festival was in full swing on Friday and Saturday and the girls had roped their Uncle Wallace into taking them for the rides on Friday night. They are ten years old...well Arianna will be ten on the 28th of this month...Haley is ten already.


I drove them to Pageland and dropped them off at the Newspaper office with their Uncle Wallace. He was nearly as overjoyed to take them to the park as I was to be heading back to Jefferson. Where once I adored these things, now I just don't. It had been a long week and even though the girls had mostly entertained themselves, I was tired. I think it was on day three of the visit that I realized why we have children when we are young. Wallace promised to take pictures and I happily headed back to Jefferson. At 10 pm I got the call to be in the parking lot at 10:30 and they'd be ready to go. I arrived just in time for the rain that had begun to fall, hoping it was doing the same thing in Jefferson. The girls were still so excited and talked about the rides they had been on. They pronounced the swings dull (not when I once rode them, swinging high over the heads of the revelers in the park) and spent most of their time on the Plane...it went round and round, over and under and forward and backward. It was pronounced "kewl". "Grandma, I rode the Plane four times and didn't even puke, " Arianna told me with such enthusiasm that I quickly stepped back in case my shoes got splashed by delayed reaction. As you can see by this last picture, it was not just a stray thought going through my head. So, my precious girls...that's Haley on the left and Arianna on the right in the top picture, have returned to their homes and I'm sure they had a great time. I cooked what they wanted, watched what they wanted, pretty much did what they wanted. They were looking forward to going home to their parents, I'm sure. I was just looking forward to a nap.

It Ain't over till it's Over

Today is July the 9, 2009. This is a day I have been looking forward to for weeks and I had marked it on the calendar. And why have I been looking forward to the 9th so excitedly? Because it meant it was no longer July the 8th. The dreaded Colonoscopy and Endoscopy were things of the past. Finis. Over. Done with.

Back in April, God pulled the ultimate April Fools joke on me (after I had mockingly said "they'll do a Colonoscopy on me when we have full camera pill technology available in Jefferson, ". And I said that in here of all places!) He had pointed His gigantic finger at my gut line and produced a little life threatening abscess on my colon. "Deal with this, smarty pants", He seemed to say. And therefore taught me the meaning of an old saying "never say never".

So, after a life altering two week stay at the Carolina Pines Hospital Resort and Vacation Spa (not) I sort of rethought my decision on Colonoscopies and me in general. Dr. Dameron, my surgeon, set the date for July the 8th. Since June 15th the box marked HalfLytely & Biscacodyl tablets Bowel Prep Kit has sat on my dressing table, mocking me. And it has the nerve to say in bold print (no whisperer this box) WITH FLAVOR PACKETS. The flavor packets being, cherry (yummy) pineapple (really?) and orange...oh no, the dreaded orange. The box mocked me every morning and every evening, so I stuck it in the closet where it could mock in darkness and leave me to my delusion that I could stave off July 8th with will power alone.

On July 6th a sweetheart of a nurse called me to remind me of our date with destiny. We did a preregistration by phone which meant saving scads of time on July 8th. There it was again, that date. July the 8th. I brought the box out of the darkness and got my hospital folder down from the bookshelf. Inside the folder were the directions for taking the Preparation. I read the directions and it didn't seem so bad. I put a brave face on when talking to Mac about what was coming up. The air of nonchalance and utter disregard for my upcoming event gave me a sort of courage that I hadn't known was there. I announced to the world that there was an upcoming party and I was the pinata...it was about then that Mac gave me the Jane Wayne award for bravery.

My pal Lee (Chrysalis Dreams) and I discussed the procedure ad nauseum by phone and by instant messenger and I knew that I would not back out of this. So on July 7th, at 6 a I mixed the solution which made up 2 litres of what I hoped wouldn't be a terribly vile drink. I added the pineapple and the cherry packs to the solution and shook well. I placed it in the fridge to chill (shaken, not stirred comes to mind...James Bond invades my daydreams on the occasion). On this day I could eat nothing. It was a clear liquid diet of tea, broth and hard candies (no red colors it announced in bold letters on the diet instruction sheet). No caffeine (I was doomed) no aspirin, no arthritis pain meds. This was going to be a pretty crappy day. In more ways than one.

At three p I was instructed to take the first of the two Bisacodly tablets. Then, I began drinking the solution at 5 p. It wasn't as bad as I had imagined it to be. Not great, I mean I wouldn't take it over say, tap water...but not bad. I had to drink the whole two litres in two hours 8 ounces at a time every ten minutes. What fun. I don't know why I a straw in the bottle wouldn't have accomplished the same thing, but I am a stickler for instructions so eight ounces every ten minutes it was. It was along about 6 p that I warned Mac not to get in my way when I began to beat a hasty retreat to the master bath. At 7 p I took the second of the two tablets and finished off my not so tasty cocktail. And the trotting to and fro began in earnest. This little drama continued till about 2 a. Exhausted, I threw myself into bed at 2:30 a and slept the sleep of the seriously disturbed until 5 the same morning.

I needed no alarm clock. My eyes opened wide in consternation, and I ran for the bathroom for what I hoped was the last time during this event. Having been NPO (nothing by mouth) since Midnight the night before, I fought the urge for that hot life giving cup of coffee that I knew the pot was brewing at that very instant. I also fought the urge to dump the contents down the sink so that Mac couldn't have any either. I'm sort of evil that way. But I took a sip of water with my blood pressure meds, the altace and the ToProl xl...and enjoyed the very wetness of that water against my lips. Mac got up and asked me if I was okay and I assured him that I was. "Piece of cake, " I threw off while feeling as though I could throw up.

At 6:45 we gathered everything I needed to take with me and walked out into a blanket of fog. We could have been in England the fog was so dense. (Lie back and think of England...could this be what they had meant?) Announcing that it was a good thing we were able to get an early start, Mac loaded my few things into the truck. We arrived at 7:30 and I was escorted to the Out Patient Services department. Once taken into what was called a Holding Room, where I was hooked up to an IV and my b/p checked, I waited for the eventual trip to the OR. Mac was allowed to stay with me till the appointed time and he kept asking me why I was so quiet. Okay, if you knew me personally you would know this is an important question. I talk incessantly sometimes. My brain never rests. I had to tell him that I really had nothing to say except "get me out of here" and I knew that if I said it often enough he would oblige me. So, it was best to say nothing. At 9a they came for me.

The nurse chatted lightly to me all the way to the OR area. She was very pleasant and cheerful. It had helped to know that I was not the only person in the hospital for this procedure that morning. I was one of 9, she told me. As we rolled into the OR room that I would be getting my procedure done in, I finally gave in to the inevitable. I was asked by someone, I'm not sure who, if I was ready. I put as much bravado in my voice as I could muster and told them, "lets get this party started, the Pinata is here!"

I came to at about 10:45 and they were bringing me a Sprite Zero and asking me how I felt. Amazingly I felt fine. I asked if was all over and they assured me that it was. Hmmm. Mac came into the room, kissed my forehead and asked how I was. I told him I was fine, that I couldn't believe how upset I had been over what was nothing really. Earlier I had quipped "a piece of cake" and now I knew it really was. The hardest part had been the preparations the day before, the constant run for the bathroom...that had been the worst of it. I was in utter disbelief.
And Mac said that Dr. Dameron had found nothing to be alarmed by in the bowel and no bleeding in my stomach to explain the low hemoglobin, either.

So, children that is why I am so glad that this is July the 9th. It's all behind me, now.
No pun intended.
Post of the Day

Hollywood

She was leaving work late one night when she heard the plaintive mewl coming from beneath the car. Leaning down to peer under the darkness of the vehicle, she saw nothing. Still the noise came. Opening the car door, she pulled the hood release lever. When she opened the hood, the mewling became louder and suddenly she pinpointed the noise...there just within reach was a bundle of color just a little lighter than the darkness beneath. Reaching out, she bravely grabbed the little bundle of fur encased within the engine and it yawned widely, already knowing that a parking lot vehicle was not going to be it's home forever.

They named him Hollywood. He was a star. The silky gray fur stood out from his body as though he had stuck a claw into a light socket. Bela, the Dark Lord of the Underworld, simply ignored him. He neither hissed nor threw out long claws to dice and dissect, simply walked around him so as to give this new intruder no purchase on his body or his psyche. So Hollywood stayed.

He grew into a rather large cat who neither ruled nor became enslaved. He simply was. And because he was, he was loved obsessively. You could not walk into his presence without reaching out a hand and touching the velvety ears or tickling the small pointed chin. So in a way, I suppose he actually did. Rule that is.

And so this is how came into my life, the first "Grandcat". We heard the story of the rescue from the car engine several times, and the haughty young mister would stroll out into the limelight to be admired and stroked (or not) and then lay upon his sofa or chair of choice and like Garbo, wait to be left alone.

He was older now. Not quite as old as niece Deanna, but older by far then nieces Haley and Kirsten. He did not move as fast as he once did. He began to lose weight. One weekend he simply could not eat. He slipped into a deep sleep from which no amount of coaxing or cajoling could waken him. Hearts broke. Tears welled. Whispered discussions were held. Phone calls made. Vet appointment scheduled for the final goodbye. Grandma called.

So this is how Hollywood came to rest within the hallowed wood behind our home. Resting comfortably in the shade where wild flowers grow and squirrels romp through trees and birds fly and nest and other cats play along the primeval floor and God looks down from His Heaven. Where Grandma can keep him safe and softly speak to him when she passes by the place where he sleeps. No more goodbyes. Hello, Hollywood.

Where I've been...and what I've been doing...

I can't believe it's been two weeks since I've been in here. Time flies, you know? The book signing went so well that I'm just flabbergasted. This little cutie pie is six years old. Her name is Allie Vaughn and she asked me to sign her book, which she bought with her own money. I took pleasure in personalizing her book for her. This is the picture that appears in the Progressive Journal News. I sold my stock of books and have another book signing on July 20th in Anson County (North Carolina) at 11 a. The day was a joy for me.


But in the mean time, the garden flourishes.

All week before last we weeded and watered, hoed and dusted. We picked the first little batch of beans last Saturday. We had planted Rattlesnake Beans, which are a green bean with purple stripes on them. When you cook them, the purple stripe disappears, and like magic, it's just a green bean. I cooked them with new potatoes that we dug from our container. So good, cooked together. We also cook cabbage and potatoes together. Do you suppose it's the Scots/Irish heritage?















This is what we harvested this morning...the tomatoes are outdoing themselves...it's Sink Sandwich time for sure!

But enough about the hard work that Mac and I have put in the past two weeks. I am always having to chastise "the Chief" about over doing. This week we had a little scare. Once again I take you to the halls of Wal-Mart. And what have I told you children? When you're not well enough to shop at WalMart, your next stop should be where? So, there we are in WalMart and I'm just picking up a few items that we need (mainly cat food) and I noticed that he was lagging behind. I asked him if he felt alright and was told rather sharply that no, he wasn't. He felt a heaviness in his chest and was short of breath. Now, the day before I spent hours telling him that humidity was to high, he needed to take a break (as I was doing) and come in and cool down. But NOOOOOO, would John Wayne come in just account of a measly heat wave? You don't know how sick I am of John Wayne. Never mind that The Duke has come in from the garden permanently, it does no good to point that out.

So, as we headed out to the parking lot, I tell Mac "you know there's one of two things that can be done right now."
"And that would be?" he asked.
"We stop in at Carolina Pines (hospital) now or you take the $7000 ride later (meaning the ambulance from home...and that's a low estimation on the cost these days). Imagine my surprise when he voluntarily stopped at the ER of Carolina Pines, but actually walked in with me. I knew this couldn't be good.

They ran an EKG, twice. They gave him a blood thinning shot. They checked his b/p (many many times). Then they admitted him for observation. He kept saying that he really needed to go home and the ER Doc finally told him that since he was a captive audience (IV drip already going) he did not feel inclined to let him leave. Good news, it appears that it was definitely heat exhaustion and that now home, he's heeding the advice of the Doctors. In after 11 a. Now, this is the same advice that I have been giving all week. Do I get an M.D. behind my name? No, of course not. I don't even get the joy of having him pay me any attention. Maybe next time!

Cloud Walkers

I woke up early this morning. Of course, I waken early most mornings, but this morning when I rolled over and looked at the clock I was amazed to see it read 5 a.m. We worked so hard yesterday on the new raised bed that Mac and I collapsed into sleep at 9:30 p. At 9, Mac said, "what happened to the days when we never made it to bed before Midnight, and now seems like we just can't wait for the sun to go down?"

I allowed as to how we work harder now than we did then. This is a job, taking care of and maintaining lawns and gardens on 4 acres. I've suggested taking a late afternoon nap, but we don't have time. We go out onto the porch at about 6 am every morning and drink our coffee and wait for the fog to burn off. Pretty soon, coffee cup in hand, I'm wandering over to the flower bed because even from there, I can see grass trying to invade the Coneflowers and the Cannas...the Gerbera Daisies are peeking through the spent Iris leaves and I know what the number 1 job will be! A sharp pair of scissors will fan those leaves nicely, about half way down.














My excitement with the morning grew as I looked over and saw that my Hollyhock was blooming. Someone told me that it was a biannual, and I have no reason to doubt their word but the Hollyhock blooms every year. I guess no one told it. As I got up close with the camera, I noticed something else. Kittens in the bed...the plants in this bed are so big and hardy that they can do no damage, so I leave them alone to enjoy their play.















I take a walk over to Mac's Tomato bed. On the wire he has green beans and cucumbers growing. I can't wait to tell Arianna to go pick me some green beans and hear her shout out "Gran, there's cucumbers growing on the bean vine!" We've already picked (and eaten) about six of the cukes and they were delightful. We grow two varieties, the Cruncher and Straight 8...we are looking forward to the first ripe tomato and the first Sink Sandwich...my mouth hurts from the watering of it!














The fog is still thick on the ground and I can remember my Grandfather, Dwight Douglas, as he took my hand and we walked out into the morning telling me that we were Cloud Walkers. A chill just went down my back because I heard his voice so clearly inside my head it was as though he stood beside me. Perhaps he was.















I walked over to the Damson Plum tree which was now heavy laden with fruit...I couldn't believe how big they were and couldn't resist showing you...this little beauty was popped into my mouth as soon as the picture was taken! Sweet heavenly breakfast.














So, before going inside to get ready for my exciting day today, here's a picture of my Thumbergia vine...often called Black Eyed Susan...I am thrilled with it's progress as it attacks the porch railing with beauty and determination. But today, I have a Book Signing at the Chesterfield County Library. I'm excited and maybe that's why 5 a came early, but I didn't even mind.

Papa Loved Mama

I'm not sure yet what the title of this post should be. It will have to come to me as I tell the story. I often tell you that I was brought up by Ricky and Lucy Ricardo. That's because they were not dissimilar from that famous TV couple. Daddy, the hot blooded Latin (from Quito , Ecuador) and Mama, the zany red head (and only her hairdresser knew for sure) from the Carolina's. The accents meshed somehow, as did the personalities. Their love and devotion often clashed with their tempers, but it always worked out somehow.

Yes, I'll be the first to admit that while their love carried them all over the world, their spats were never dull and often accompanied them along with their luggage. When the green eyed monster reared his ugly head, the luggage became baggage and the fight would be on. My mother, a beautiful woman, often caught the eye of men and it killed my father, while it simply tickled my mother. I can hear him even now..."that man was looking at you." My mother, smiling at him would simply say, "it's a free world. Looking costs nothing." Glares all around would be the order of the day.

Daddy never talked about himself. He would only talk about Mama and what all she had accomplished in her life, as though she had done it without his help. He would tell about the missions of mercy she often found herself embroiled in, providing medicine in South America for those who could not afford it or were unable to obtain it. Her many acts of kindness and generosity while she and he worked their behinds off in the Valverde Clinic. After losing her in death (of Ovarian Cancer) several years back, we were sure that we would lose him, too. They had rarely spent a night away from each other in over fifty years. We didn't know how this man, who didn't even know how to operate a microwave (but could diagnose a disease often with an exam only) could get along on his own. He refused to move in with any of us, it was just him and his cat.

What we came to call "the Mama Stories" still poured out of him, as though just talking about her brought her close to him. I suppose it does. But we kept urging him to tell us something about himself, and he would haltingly tell us of working in Havana as a Doctor while Batista was still in power, then going to Panama to work, gradually working his way up to the United States. We would be all agog, never having heard these stories before. We came to suspect that he had been hiding his light under Mama's bushel. But in my mind, I could still hear their heated quarrels over minor things, the heated quarrels that made up their life as surely as their love did. If there was some problem that we really didn't want Daddy involved in, I could hear Mama telling us, never mind, let me handle your father. And we knew she could. And would. You see, even I do it...Mama has once again taken over and Daddy is the man standing just behind her, peering over her shoulder. I blame him. He's the one who taught us.

The Woman in the mirror

I don't know about the rest of you, but I can remember when I was little that "The Aunts" would gather on the porch a few afternoons each week to discuss their "ailments". There was lumbago, rheumatiz, (I know it's misspelled...that's how they said it) gout, "woman problems" and the all famous "noxious gas". Of course that last one was mostly when they were discussing the Uncles. The Aunts Florence (there were two of them ) Aunt Della, Aunt Edith and of course my grandmother, Nancy Douglas would gather on the porch, bushels of beans at their feet, big aluminum pans in their laps. Funnily enough Nancy, my grandmother, never complained about her "miseries", she just announced in a rather matter of fact way that, now she was a woman of a certain age, nothing worked right anymore. That was it. No long drawn out complaints, just a simple statement of fact. Otherwise, she would sit with the bean pan in her lap, nod solemnly as the Aunts continued their litany of ailments, and shell and snap beans for dinner or the freezer.

I have discovered that as we get older (I hate the word old, so we'll go with older) we have more and more in common with our fore mothers. It will be up to us to decide into whom we actually morph. Do we become one of the Aunts decrying the fact that your body is busy deserting your spirit, or become like my grandmother who just took things in stride. I frankly enjoyed listening to the Aunts as they grumbled and groused, but I'm sure those who had to hear it on a daily basis soon tired of the tirade. I know we all remember my "what a big girl I am" stance when I refused the gently offered suggestion of a colonoscopy from my beloved Doc Moyd. Uh huh, I stood my ground and said "no no no". I was channeling my inner brat. Then a few weeks later...not months mind you, mere weeks, I ran headlong into my own mortality and landed in hospital for two weeks. The dreaded colonoscopy would have saved me that bit of a near death experience.

So, to add to the list of complaints showing just how low we can go...my arthritic foot...that constant source of pain and betrayal, sent me to the ER a couple of weeks ago. While they were taking x-rays, yet again, they did a little blood work. My hemoglobin was 9.9. Normal is between 12 and 14 and mine had been 13.5 in January. So, getting the call from Doc Moyd, in I go to do a double check. His main concern was just where my blood was going. I took a deep breath and sighed loudly when he asked if I had scheduled the colonoscopy with Dr Dameron. "We do that on Tuesday, " I told him. He then explained that Dr. Dameron would most likely want to do an Endoscopy on my sorry self, too. I nodded at him, all the time in my mind saying "no way, no way no way in hell!"

On Tuesday I found out that my Doc Moyd had been a busy little beaver before I actually got into see Doc Dameron. They had been on the phone with each other and the wagons were circled. I surrendered gracefully. BOTH procedures are scheduled for July 8th. Wish me luck.
And call me Nancy.

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