SUNDAY RERUN: Dad Tells Me a Story

This is an entry from my diary, May 12, 2003. It includes a story Dad told me, one which I'd forgotten:

There are times I'm intensely aware that any journal is a series of choices--what to record, in how much detail, what to omit. You may even have to choose whose stories to tell. I'm deciding tonight, here in the time-share vacation condo I'm sharing with my parents, Mom's sister Charlotte, and Dad's brother's widow Jewel. Already a week has passed since the fund-raising dinner/theatre entertainment for the new production of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Mother's Day was yesterday, Bruce's hearing with his supervisor's superior was this morning, and I have spent a rare five hours alone with my dad as we drove from Portland, (actually he joined me in Hood River) to Leavenworth, followed by dinner here, a round of crafting stick-pins, and swapping reminisces until Mom and the aunties were too tired to stay up any longer. Dad went to bed shortly after dinner. The trip had worn him out.

Now here I am, sitting propped against the wall, sideways at the head of the Murphy bed. I'm trapped in pajamas, as the living room is my bedroom, and perspiration beads my forehead. Aunt Charlotte was worried some Peeping Tom could see through the vertical blinds. What would she think if I opened a window? I am ready to go out and sleep in the van. Anything to cool off. I am going to open a window.

I surprised myself by being ready to leave when Mom and Dad arrived this morning. The car was packed, I'd had time to eat, RC had checked the tires and transmission.

Mom rode with me as far as Aunt Charlotte's, in Hood River. We had a brief visit there with cousin Cindy, and a light lunch, and then loaded Charlotte's gear into Mom and Dad's little red Taurus and drove over to pick up Aunt Jewel. Dad was my passenger now. Said he didn't want to get stuck in a car with three gabbling women. He'd told me in Portland he'd switch with Mom. Sometimes I've felt as though Dad and I didn't have a lot in common. I think it's a male/female thing. Duane told me once he always fretted about what to get Mom for Christmas and birthdays, but Dad was easy. It's just the other way around, for me--with Mom, I have to take a l-o-o-o-n-g list of possibilities and pare it down; with Dad I walk around wondering what one earth he might like to get! But there's one thing Dad and I have always shared: Our love of music.

We sang together for long miles, reminding each other of songs we hadn't thought of in years, resurrecting lyrics in a patchwork fusion of mental filing systems. 

And Dad told me stories. 

He told me of the time he'd been out logging with his brother, (my Uncle Walt) and a couple of buddies. They'd set out from camp one morning, Dad and one of the guys. Uncle Walt was still in camp, and the fourth man was already out in the woods. Dad had a double-headed clearing axe over his shoulder, which they used the way I suppose one would use a machete, to clear brush around the trees they wanted to cut, or to clear a path through the forest. It was honed every morning until it had an edge you could have shaved with.

Well, it was cold and frosty, and Dad stepped up onto an icy log lying in the path, lost his balance, and tried to keep his feet by bringing the handle of the axe down, slicing his neck quite neatly at the base of the skull.

His buddy managed to get him back to camp, where Uncle Walt hustled them into their old car. Dad's friend had a thick, folded cloth over the gash, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it wasn't working. At the sound of the car's engine, the fourth man came out of the woods wanting to know why they were going back. Uncle Walt jerked a thumb at the back seat, where Dad and his friend were. 

That fourth man took one look at the two of them and said, "Stop the car!" to Uncle Walt, yanked the back door open and said, "Get out!" to the friend, who did, and scrambled into the front seat. Then the latecomer climbed in with Dad and pushed his thumb into the pressure point on the side of Dad's neck, stopping the flow of blood. Without his knowledge and action, Dad would have bled to death.

Now, back to 2011, with the latest photos from the yard:

Almost Summer in the Garden

Well, I think I've been brain dead for the last couple of months! Odd what dealing with even a non-threatening bit of cancer will do. (Update: My DH has been through the surgery, and the first six treatments, and is doing fine. No more treatments now until mid-July. As you'll see from the photos, he's feeling a Lot better!)

Today marked the first real day of spring/summer here, and was it a wonder. We went from day after day of cold drizzle, to mid-sixty temperatures yesterday, with more drizzle, to brilliant sunshine and a high of 90 degrees today.

There was just one thing to do: Get out in the yard and garden!

Bob and I had been working for a couple of hours when I looked across the yard and realized, It's finally coming together. After all these years...look how beautiful! I had to get the camera, even though some of the photos are littered with spades, wheelbarrows, and other tools.

We've lived here now for eleven years. When we bought the place, our main thrust was to keep the weeds mowed. The "lawn" was up to our thighs the first time we mowed it. There were no arbors, no benches, no swings, no paths, no flower beds other than the ones along each of the houses, and they're only about 18" wide. (Unusual property alert: We actually bought five houses on half an acre. We live in one, and rent out the other four.) Now...Well, I'll let the photos do the talking.

Okay, so what have I been doing? I have a new passion, or an old passion with a new twist: For the first time in my life, I'm taking voice lessons, something I'd always dreamed of doing. The new twist is what I'm singing--opera! Coloratura, to be exact. What's coloratura? Usually soprano, I'm told, and rather acrobatic, with lots of movement and runs and jumps from one octave to another. I am having SO MUCH FUN! Our teacher's master class is having a get-together tomorrow, and we'll all sing for each other. This is one of the tunes I'll be singing:

BLADDERS ON ETSY

No, this is not an entry about shopping 'til your bladder threatens to pop. It's about finding bladders on Etsy, proof enough for me that if it can be thought of, it will be created and sold on that most eclectic of websites.

Bladder Patch in Neither Sparky's Shop

I know what you're thinking. Why on earth would anyone be looking for bladders, on Etsy or anywhere else, for that matter? Well, in my case, it's because my DH had five, count 'em, five bladder tumors removed this Tuesday. There was supposed to be just one, but the CT scan lied. They're cancerous, but the doctor thinks they got all of it, and to make certain of that, they'll do some chemo of a rather strange (to me, at least) variety: A liquid infused with inactive tuberculosis germs will be put into the bladder, causing the DH's immune system to freak out and come rushing to destroy the germs, at which point the white cell minions will discover any cancer cells lurking and destroy them, too.That is the plan, and the doctor seems quite confident in it.

Three more finds:

 

Dr Kilmore's Swamp Root Bladder Cure (Mary's CrochetnMore)

Bladderwrack Pendant (CorryVrecken)

"I Laughed So Hard" Magnet (CrossEyedCatGifts)

Looking for bladders on Etsy taught me another thing: Bladders, unless they're the plant variety, seem to be inherently funny. I mean, honestly, can you even say, "bladders on Etsy" without smiling?

FRIDAY FENCE POST #76

Time already for a Friday Fence Post! I've been thinking about this one all week, ever since I got to go up to the Hood River Valley to see Mama. She and her sister, my Aunt Charlotte, go for a two-mile walk just about every day. My brother Duane was also visiting, so the four of us all went.

The daily walk takes place on a road near Aunt Charlotte's, with this on one side:

and this on the other:

 

Now, when I go walking with other people and have my camera with me, a routine usually develops quite quickly. I stop to take pictures. They keep walking. I run to catch up. Same number of steps, but I like the extra exertion it gives me!

My "little" brother (he is younger!) encourages me:

Between the two photos just above, there was a fence. A great fence. Close-ups first:

Look how the lichen and weathered knothole have formed a heart:

And then this last one. I didn't even see the horse until I had the gate in my viewfinder. I love it!

One last shot of the dog who joined us at about the half-mile mark. You may not be able to see from this shot, but this is one BIG dog. When he stands on his hind feet, he is at least as tall as Mama, and he quite easily bounces up to eye-level with that six-foot brother o' mine. And we are all convinced he's just a puppy still! He has that goofy galumphing playfulness that only puppies have, and when he isn't suddenly putting his front paws on your shoulders, he's quite the charmer.

Puppy was entranced by the newly-constructed igloo in this yard, and almost went inside, but there was this other dog...We didn't see him for a while after that, but he did rejoin us on our return.

Your turn! I haven't seen any fences but my own lately and I want to see yours! Post your fence on your blog, and drop the link into Mr Linky here, and be sure to leave a comment!

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SUNDAY RERUN: Let It Be a LIVE Baby!

It's time for a Sunday Favorite, hosted by dear Chari, over at Happy to Design. (You can click on the button in the left sidebar to get the directions for joining the party, or go straight to today's meme there by clicking on the link at the end of my first sentence.)

This entry is from March 18, 2003. The baby born is now fifteen years old, and a lovely young woman. Lots of words, but an amazing story, I think.


I went to a baby shower at my eldest daughter's Saturday. As often happens at that sort of party, the women talked a bit about doctors, pregnancies, that sort of thing.

One of the doctors in town, who had been my youngest's OB/GYN, has been forced out of practice, apparently for incompetency. Talking about him, that daughter stated, "Well, I don't know, but I lost two babies with him, and he was great." Those miscarriages had been so emotionally painful for her it was both a shock and a relief to hear her talk so matter-of-factly about them.

I'm remembering how, I think during the first Revels show she was in, the cast was circled up on stage before the house was opened, all of us gathering and joining our energies in preparation for the performance. One of the cast members suggested, since Revels is all about the cycle of life and death, light and dark, that we share the names of those loved ones who'd died during the year, and honor them. It seemed like a loving thing to do, as several cast members had lost friends or parents that year. But suddenly I realized December had turned and practically run from the stage. I followed her to the women's dressing room and found her standing alone, sobbing.

"December. December, what is it, baby?" I asked.

"Mom, I lost two babies this year, and they didn't even have names! I can't even say I lost them, because they didn't even get to have names!"

I don't know what I said. Something. I just remember holding her in my arms, my spirit weeping with and for her, until she quieted, and was able to stop crying.

I'm glad she's healing.

Then I remembered this morning what it had been like, being with her in the delivery room when Caitlin was born.

They'd induced labor. I seem to remember that something wasn't quite right about the baby, but that wasn't something December shared with us until later. She was in labor thirty-six hours, and by the wee hours of the morning was so exhausted she was falling asleep between contractions that lasted two minutes or so and were spaced only about thirty seconds apart. She was sitting up on the bed, and a contraction would start and she'd get through it as best she could, and then as it ebbed her eyes would close and her head would droop and she'd be asleep, only to lift her head with a kind of shrugging roll as the next wave of pain spread its ugly mantle over her belly.

By the time she was ready to push, and the baby was coming, we were all exhausted. I have no pain during childbirth, and watching my youngest, my own baby, my joy, suffer so much was excruciating. And then the excitement, layered over that fatigue, when she was finally able to push and we could see the baby's head crowning. I think I must have hyperventilated. I was standing next to her bed, and I looked across at her husband, who's a paramedic, and I said, with more surprise than anything else, "I'm going to pass out!"

He looked at me and said, "Yes. You are." I didn't want to cause a disruption. I went slowly to my knees, still holding the railing of the bed with one hand, and as I knelt there, the room spinning in blackness, someone put her hand on my shoulder and said softly, "You don't want to miss this." Oh, she was right! I shook off the vertigo, and rose. Just a couple more pushes and the baby was out! She had a girl!

I realized in a great sweep of fear that the nurses weren't handing her to December. They'd whisked the baby over to a little table and were working over her. I heard them urging the infant, "Come on, baby. Breathe. Breathe!" I was horrified. December didn't know what was happening. I stood there, holding her hand, listening to the nurses, listening to my daughter. She said, "I have a daughter, mommy! I have a daughter!" I looked down at her and said calmly, "Yes. Yes you do," but all I could think was "Please let it be a live one. Please let it be a live one!"

The nurses were bagging the baby--they had a bag with a mouthpiece on it, and they were squeezing it, squeezing air into her lungs. "Breathe, baby!" My eldest daughter was videotaping.

On the video you hear the little cry as Caitlin finally, finally, finally gasped air into her tiny lungs on her own. You see the room spin, the floor is on the screen, the sides of hospital furniture, and you hear December's sister and mom sobbing with relief, but you don't see the baby. There was no control left for filming.

Later, I was talking to my eldest, Melody. I asked if it had been she who'd put her hand on my shoulder and spoken to me when I almost passed out.

"No, Mom. I was too busy with the video camera."

"Oh, then it must have been one of the nurses."

Melody gave me a puzzled look. "No, Mom. There wasn't anybody near you. You were the only one on that side of the bed, except for me."

I will believe until my dying day that an angel was in that delivery room, too, and that I felt the touch of its hand, and heard its gentle words.

MEGGIE'S FIRST ATC

It's always a happy day when I get to take care of my granddaughter, Meggie, so yesterday was a happy one.

As usual, I brought art materials, and this time, something special: My little box of ATCs. It isn't yet a large collection--just twenty, so far--but I thought Meggie would enjoy looking at them.

She was fascinated. She took them from the box, one by one, laying them carefully face up in a grid on the floor. (We often sit on the floor with our backs against the sofa. It feels cozy.)

We talked about initials. She already knew her own--MO. I told her, "Well, ATC? Those are initials, too. They stand for 'Artist's Trading Card', and they're for trading. Do you want to try making one?"

She did, so we pulled out the paper and card stock, and Meg chose three she liked, and decided which of them she wanted for the background. I cut that out for her. After that, she chose a punch she liked, and punched out two flowers, and went through my stickers to see if there were something she wanted to use. She decided on an arrangement, glued her components down, and then decided gold glitter would be the final touch. (She had eight or nine glitter options, but she held the little flasks to her art-in-process, and decided very quickly on The One.)

This is her finished ATC. Quite a nice piece for a six-year-old, don't you think?


And mine, which Meggie opined was a bit "too pretty" for her tastes. "I like mine to be kind of a little wild," she told me. Actually, after her comments, I took steps to up the contrast, and even added some white glitter.


Meg decided she did like my ATC. But she still decided against trading with me!

SUNDAY RERUN: THE SQUIRREL

Time again for Sunday Favorites, hosted by Chari, over at Happy To Design! To join in the party, click on the link in my left sidebar, which will take you to the easy-peasy instructions, or just click the link in the first sentence, which will take you to the latest installment. I've chosen another poem, this time from a blog post back in 2002:

My family & me, when I was 10 or 12.
Yes. That's a skunk, our darling Taboo.

THE SQUIRREL
The winter I was twelve
A squirrel,
I think it was a squirrel,
Got into the engine compartment
Of my grandfather's car.
It must have felt like Heaven,
An oily, black, warm
Nirvana.
Bliss was short-lived.
My grandfather, all unawares,
My gentle grandpa,
Drove the car
Into town
And back.

It was the smell that informed us, finally,
Of tragedy.
The smell.
Four decades later I wonder:
Where was that tiny corpse
That grandpa could not extricate it?
We suffered for weeks,
Tearing full-tilt through snowscapes,
Windows down
Coats buttoned
Eyes streaming.

I do not care for dogs.
That winter I would happily have been one,
Head out the window,
Face forward,
Tongue flagging
Icy crisp
Clean
Fresh
Air.

SUNDAY RERUN: Tell Kids They CAN'T HELP!

It's time for a Sunday Favorite! You can join in on the fun, too. Chari, over at Happy To Design, is our hostess, and you can find her very simple rules by clicking on the button in my left sidebar. Got a favorite entry? Re-post it, and drop the link with Chari! I'm doing a bit of a montage here. The picture above is one my daughter Sarah did some years back, and I loved. I'd still like to see it as a t-shirt.... And then there's this entry, not a favorite for happy reasons, but because it's important. We need to protect our children, and this is an easy rule for them to follow with strangers.

From July of 2002, an entry detailing a conversation with my nanny charge, CJ: I was fixing little CJ's breakfast yesterday morning when he walked into the kitchen.

"Ani," he said, "Did you hear about that little girl who was only five years old and she was playing at her house with her friend and a man told them his puppy was crying and to come with him and help and maybe they could have it?"

"No, I didn't," I said, with a sinking feeling. "What happened?"

"One little girl was kinda smart and she stepped back a few steps," he said, "but the other little girl was kinda not so smart, and the man grabbed her, and he took her and he killed her. And now they found her body."

Jeez. Why? Why?! Why would someone do that? And why should a six-year-old ever have to know they did? But if he doesn't know, then he's in danger himself.

I was so saddened, it took me a minute to say much that was helpful, but I suddenly remembered a 60 Minutes segment on the subject.

"CJ," I asked, "What should you do if a grown-up you don't know asks you for help? Say, his dog is lost or sick? Or he can't find his daughter? What should you do?"

He thought. "Say 'no'," he said, and then, "Step back."

"No, CJ," I said. "RUN!! Run as fast as you can to your grown-up--to Mom, or Dad, or your teacher, or me. Run! Do you know why?"

"Yes. Actually,no." he said. (He and his sister are both so cute that way. They want so badly to be able to say they understand or know everything, but then they back off that yes answer. Every time.)

I answered my question for him. "Because grown-ups don't ask kids for help. Not kids they don't know. Never. When a grown-up needs help he asks another grown-up. They don't ask kids."

He was listening, paying close attention. "So, if a grown-up you don't know asks for help, what do you do?"

"Run," he said, "and go tell my mom or my teacher."

"How fast?" I said, and at his perplexed look, I answered the question for him again. "Very fast. Because grown-ups never ask kids for help. If they do, there's something wrong. Run and find your grown-up as fast as you can."

---

I repeated this to his older (almost 8) sister when I picked her up from her Reading Evaluation.

---

Please, people. If you have children, tell them this! Little kids want so badly to please, and they're trained to obey. They love to help, and learning when not to can save their lives. Let's not lose any more of our precious little ones. No more.

SUNDAY RERUN: Library Fine of $1642.25?!

It's time for a Sunday Favorite blog post! Click on the button over in my left sidebar to join the party over at Chari's, and post your own favorite!

A favorite photo of my cousin Angie

This is one of mine, from my other blog, posted on June 15, 2002.

Not long ago my Uncle Darrell was going through some stuff up at Grandma and Grandpa's old place, when what should he run across but a library book his niece, Angie, had checked out, oh, eighteen years ago, and never returned. It seemed like a perfect opportunity for a little fun.

Angie, at about the age she was when she checked out the infamous library book.

Darrell knew someone who worked at the school, and got her to give him some of the school's stationary. Then he wrote Angie a letter to the effect that the school had been going through old records and trying to put some of them to bed. Part of that organization effort was to get people with overdue books to ante up. Their records showed that she had checked out a book in 1984, and not returned it. The fine for that would be $1,642.25. Oh, and she'd need to buy the library a replacement, too, if she didn't still have the book.

In the meantime, Darrell enlisted the help of Angie's mom and sister. He gave them the book, and Angie's mom, my Aunt Charlotte, put it on her bookshelf. When Angie got the letter, she ran with it over to her mom's place (literally--they share a driveway) in a panic. Her sister, Cindy, was there.

Angie was panic-stricken all right, but she maintained that it had to be a mistake--she'd never even checked that book out! Cindy said, "I don't know, Ange. Seems like I saw that book just the other day..." and walked over to the bookcase, and "searched" through the titles. "Yeah! It's right here!"

Angie was totally freaked out. For exactly as long as it took Charlotte and Cindy to call Darrell so he could share in the laughter. At Angie's expense, of course. Thank goodness she's a good sport. Our entire family is still enjoying the joke.

SUNDAY RERUN: Santa Pinch-Hits for the Tooth Fairy

Here I am, with Mama and two of my brothers, Gary, and Walter (Skip).

Time again for a Sunday Favorite! Click on the button in my left sidebar to join the party over at Chari's!

This is from my "other" blog, a personal diary, and was first posted in June of 2002.

---

Okay, so it isn’t exactly a seasonal entry. This coming weekend is the get-together of all the women on my mom’s side of the family, and we’re all supposed to arrive with stories and anecdotes about our relatives, living or dead. Doing it here let’s me get it into my own journal, too, some 45 years late.

I was a woman of “a certain age”. You know the one I mean—old enough to lose her teeth, and young enough to be excited about it. Also too chicken to speed the process up in any way, which is why one of my front teeth hung by a mere thread for what was, apparently, too long for Grandma P to handle.

I was standing upstairs in my Aunt Charlotte’s old bedroom, talking to Grandma, when all of a sudden she stuck her hand in my mouth, grabbed the loose tooth, and yanked. I yelped.

“Well, it was just hangin’ there!” said Grandma.

I got over the shock pretty quick. After all, a gone tooth meant money from the Tooth Fairy. I went downstairs to the bathroom to rinse my mouth, setting the tooth on the edge of the sink. Guess I splashed too much, because an instant later it was gone. Down the drain. Lost. I was crushed.

I don’t remember anything else until the next morning, which just happened to be Christmas. Under the Christmas tree was a little cradle that I knew instantly Grandpa had made for me, and in the cradle was a doll, and on the doll’s cheek was a dime. That puzzled me, and I asked Grandpa about it.

“Well,” he said, “you know that tooth you lost last night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it went down the drain, and through the pipe, right down to the crick out yonder,” and he gestured toward the woods beyond the pasture (strawberry patch back then) to where the creek was. “This little fish saw it come out, and he told a little bird, and the bird flew to the North Pole and told Santa Claus. And Santa got on the phone and called the Tooth Fairy, and she said, “Santa, since you’re going to be out there anyway, could you drop off a dime for me?”

And yes. Of course I believed him. It was Grandpa.

A CRAFTY VACATION: The Crafts We Did

I've been editing the photos from our crafty vacation, and finally have them ready to show off!

First, I'll show you a few views of the condo we stayed at:

You see the view from a few steps outside the front door, the kitchen and dining rooms, and the living room, with my bed folded down out of the wall, and the view out the living and dining room windows. It's such a pleasant place to stay!


Well known fact: I'd much rather be behind the camera than in front of it, so you see everyone but me in these photos! But the montage above shows Aunt Charlotte (in pink), my mom, and my daughter, working at various crafts.

We made gift tags, something none of us had ever done, using manila tags, magazine illustrations, stamps and ink, stickers, ribbon, and various other embellishments. We decorated and stamped the backs, too, but I'll just show you the fronts:

First three of December's tags

Second three of December's tags

Aunt Charlotte's tags

Mama's tags, with the back of the yellow one inset

My tags

We also made bird feeders from pretty cups and old light fixtures. December packed hers before I took the shots, and I didn't get to make one, but here you see

Mama's

Aunt Charlotte's

Another craft was to decoupage or decal pictures onto the glass in small frames, which we then glued to gold-painted plaques. We also embellished the pictures with glitter, dabs of gold paint, and in Mama's case, a glittery and fuzzy snowflake. A votive stands behind the pictures, and when you light the candle, it softly back lights and shines through the picture:

Aunt Charlotte's

Mama's

Mine

December's

We made hummingbird feeders from old bottles, glass tiles, and flat marbles:

And we made Cook Book Bookmarks and put together Mug Em's, which I didn't photograph, since we'd done them before. (You can see the Mug Em's from last year here, though.)

I have just one fuzzy photo of Mama's bookmarks, because I thought I'd done a blog entry on them before and was just going to point you to it. These panels are from a 1940's cook book I picked up. I copied the cartoon panels, printed some in B&W, and others with a bit of color, and we backed them with scraps of fabric we fringed at the top and bottom:


I think we got quite a lot accomplished, especially when you consider that we also spent two whole mornings thrifting. We arrived at the condo late Monday afternoon, so no crafting that day, went thrifting until 3pm on Tuesday, and until 11 am on Wednesday, crafted in the afternoons, put together lovely lunches and dinners (everyone fended for themselves at breakfast), and played cards until late every night. And December and I managed to squeeze in two swim/hot tubbing excursions, we rented and all watched The Time Traveler's Wife, and got all of the thirty aprons Mama wants to put in her Etsy shop ironed and photographed. And we still managed to check out at noon on Friday!

It was an awesome four-day week, and I can't wait until next year so we can do it again!