Yesterday at work the professors in the geology department where I work were comparing themselves in geologic terms.  One professor, ready to retire, was likened to a fossil.  A newly hired teacher was called a soft rock.  One of our senior students, knee deep in a major project, piped up, "I guess that would make me dirt".

 

 

I lived through it.  My daughters sounded great.  I only messed up once (at the very beginning of "my big solo").  Luckily the piano was facing the wall, so nobody saw the face I pulled when I bonked when I should have plunked. I am not good at maintaining the confident performing facade my daughters have.  Where do my kids get their talent?

 

I have always been exposed to classical music.  My dad would play Beethoven every Sunday while my mother finished our Sunday dinner.  For years I would smell pot roast every time I heard the strains of Handel, Bach, or Mozart. I was exposed to it, but I didn’t learn to love it until I had children of my own.

 

My oldest son, David, started out our family's string instrument obsession by playing the viola in the 4th grade music program.  Once he entered Jr. High he decided he needed a better instrument than we could give him.  He found a great friend and benefactor in a man named Ed Brown.  Ed lived 30 miles away, so David would beg rides from neighbors, relatives, and friends to go to his house, where Ed taught him the fine art of viola making.  David learned how to choose wood, even down to which tree in which grove worked best. He learned how to make the pattern, cut out and join the pieces, and tune the wood using a vibration system which showed where it needed to be carved down more.  He learned how to apply the varnish and the finishing pieces like the pins, strings, and chin rest.  His instrument turned out great, not just for a kid of 15, but really great.  Once in college he thought he would like once again to upgrade his instrument, so he bought a really nice viola.  After using it for a couple of years he sold it, saying he liked his own viola better. 

 

 

Lisa has played the violin since the 4th grade.  We bought a beautiful little violin for her for about $500.00.  It was a sacrifice for our family to spend so much on an instrument, but we wanted her to have it.  (The instrument she uses now is astronomical in price compared to her first one. The bow alone cost more than three times that amount.) When she was in the 7th grade we decided it would be good if both David and Lisa joined the youth symphony.  That was a sacrifice on our part as we had to deliver them to practices every week and then either hang around for a couple of hours or drive back and forth to Idaho Falls, which was 30 miles away.  It was a happy day when David received his driver's license.

 

Both David and Lisa tried out for and made it into the All-Northwest Orchestra while in high school.  They were able to fly to Portland for the adventure. (A first for both of them.) The next year, after David graduated, Lisa decided to learn to play the Viola.  She auditioned for the All-State Orchestra on both the Viola and the Violin and was accepted for both. I can’t remember which instrument she played.  I think it was the viola because she was placed higher in the seating.  She majored in music in college.  This is when she really started to excel.  Musicians sacrifice so many of their hours to perfecting their craft. It was nothing for her to practice 5 hours a day. While here she won the Concerto Competition and the Young Artist Competition which was held in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. She has since graduated from BYU-Idaho, attended Aspen Music Festival for 3 years, and obtained her Master’s degree from the University of Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. She is currently teaching a one year appointment for a professor who is on sabbatical.  She plans to return to CCM in the fall to finish her Doctorate.

 

Joni played the Viola for 5 years, Abby the Violin for 8 years, and Andy played the Cello for 5 years. Ours is a musical family. One of my greatest joys is watching them make music together.  It is music mingled with laughter and love.  Music really does help my world go around.

Tonight is our department Christmas dinner. The secretary was in charge of ordering the room, food, and sending out the invitations.  I was in charge of finding musical entertainment. What an easy job for me!  My family is bursting with musical talent. Lisa, my oldest daughter is currently teaching music at our university, and plays the viola, violin, and piano.  Both she and Abby, my youngest daughter, sing very well. It was an easy thing to ask Lisa to come up with 2 Christmas numbers.

 

I settled back and relaxed, knowing the food would be great, the company would be great, and the musical numbers would be great. 

 

Yesterday I got a call from Lisa. “Mom, can you play the piano for us while we sing a duet?”  I am not a performer.  I am not really that musical.  I took piano lessons for about 10 years, but never really progressed passed about the 4^th level.  I have mild panic attacks when I have to get in front of a group of people.  I remember one piano recital I was in.  As the date for the recital drew near I played my pieces worse and worse.  My teacher said I was just nervous and would be fine when the day came.  She was wrong.  When it was my turn to go up and play my pieces, my hands were shaking so bad that I didn’t think I’d be able to play at all.  Somehow I began, though, and thought it would be all right.  That’s when my mind went totally blank.  Since these pieces were memorized that was not a good thing. The teacher took pity on me and didn’t force me to play in the next recital. I think she was trying to avoid embarrassment for herself as well. So when I got the call from Lisa I was immediately in panic mode.  She assured me it was not hard, and that we would go slowly, and that I would be fine. I went to her office (our buildings on campus are right next to each other) and tried to play the piece.  “Maybe if you left out these notes”, Lisa offered helpfully.  I tried again.  “You could also leave these notes out” she coached.

 

I told her I would try to find someone else to play.  My only other hope was a student who works for us in our office. I knew she played the piano as she would have to leave early to go to her piano lesson.  I gave her the music hopefully.  Last night at 8 pm she gave Lisa a call.  She would not be able to play after all.  My panic button was in alarm mode.  I went to the piano and plunked through an extremely watered down version of the piece.  “Okay, I can do this”, I told myself. When I played the second time through my daughters sang their parts.  They sounded so beautiful that I would listen to them and forget to play my little “one note at a time” accompaniment. I had a hard time keeping a steady beat. Lisa said, “Are you losing your groove, mom?”  Yes!  I lost my groove when I realized I was going to have to play this thing. 

 

So tonight, in front of the people I work with every day, in front of my children, my husband, and anyone walking down the hall, I will be playing the piano. And when I get to the middle of the piece where there is a short introduction between verses, I will hear Lisa’s voice in my head, “here comes Mom’s big solo.”  Plunk plunk, plunk, plunk……

 

The sky has always fascinated me.  I will go outside at midnight and just stare at the stars. Because I live in such a rural area I can usually see them all vividly.  There are no city lights to detract. At around 5:00 every evening I will look to the west and watch for the next 30 minutes as the sky turns orange, pink, salmon, yellow, and navy blue. And on the rare occasion when I am conscious in the early hours when the sun starts to peek over the Teton Mountains, I am in awe of that as well, all though in a sleepier, subdued way. In the winter I watch snow, in the summer I watch lightning, all year around I watch the wind, or at least the effects of it.

 

Clouds are mesmerizing.  They billow up and flatten out and streak across.  Sometimes they are so thin you have to squint hard to block out the suns harsh rays to see the wisps scattered here and there in the sky.  Often they are rolly, lumpy handfuls of cotton slowly changing, getting more bunched up here, more stretched out there, drifting en mass from one edge of my sky to the other.   So today I am sharing an awesome website with you.  The clouds shown are so surreal they look photoshopped. The weather man who gave this site to me assures me they are not. Enjoy. http://pic1.funtigo.com/valuca?g=25544746&cr=1

 

When I see the sun start to set a feeling of serenity comes over me.  It speaks to my soul using the language of color.  As an artist, color is a very powerful way to communicate. Days when things haven’t quite fallen the way I wanted always seem less important when I can see the vibrant, or subtle changes in the sky as the sun sinks behind the Menan Butte. I have many many photos of those sunsets.  I want to capture the feeling I get when I see it.  I’ve been known to run outside barefoot in winter, camera in hand to catch the changing sky before it’s gone. I’ve been the object of some good-natured ribbing over this. (“There goes mom again, taking another picture of the sunset.”)  I don’t really care.  I wish I could paint sunsets that give the same feeling I get when I view one.

 

Lightning storm are terrifying.  They are unpredictable and powerful.  My fear of lightning is tempered by my awe at the power and majesty I see. I have had a life-long fear of talking on the phone during a thunderstorm.  This was fueled by tales of my great-grandmother hiding under the bed with her children and exacerbated by the news that our neighbor was electrocuted during a thunderstorm while talking on the phone. My husband would tell me how unlikely that would be every time a storm came and I would refuse to answer the incessantly ringing phone. Then I would find magazine articles, or news stories about other unfortunate individuals “caught in the act”. One of my favorite stories was of Dannion Brinkley. If you want a fascinating account you should check out his books on what happened to him as a result. I don’t think I ever convinced Mike about the dangers of phone talking during a thunderstorm, but now I don’t worry as much.  I usually use my cell phone.  No wires and no direct line for the electricity to follow straight into my ear.

             

It is cold here in Idaho.  My brother’s blog of yesterday tells some of the tales of Idaho winters.  I could always tell when it was below zero.  All you had to do was breathe in through your nose.  If your nose hairs froze it was probably at least heading into the negative range. Blizzards of years long ago were much harsher than the blizzards of the last 20 years.  Our road would be totally impassable for days.  If you had to go out you needed to hike over the cement hard drifts which were so dense we drove our extremely heavy old station wagon on top of it just to get a picture. I really didn’t mind being snowed in.  It was a great excuse to;

#1. Not go to school.  This was always the goal.  School was cancelled many days back in the 60’s and 70’s in our neck of the woods. And,

#2. Stay home.  When you can not drive anywhere you have a perfect excuse to play, read, goof off, build snowmen, and enjoy the day. I think our road crews nowdays are just a little bit too on the ball.  It wouldn’t hurt to be stranded at home once in a while. I kind of mourn for those days, for me and my kids.

 

 Once in a while, though, we really do have a great big storm come in that is reminiscent of my childhood.  The one I remember the most happened three years ago on New Years night.  A huge blizzard was raging outside.  Our family was all home and cozy by the wood-burning stove watching a movie and enjoying a peaceful relaxing evening.  We could hear the wind whistling outside, which only seemed to add to our feeling of snugness and security.  After the movie ended my husband went to the window to watch the storm.  All of the windows on the front side of our house were totally pasted with snow.  He opened the front door instead, so that he could see.  The wind caught the door and blew it in, hard! We have double front doors and somehow the pressure of the wind forced open the second door as well. Immediately we had a full raging blizzard in our living room.  There was a lot of shouting and running as we got hammers and towels and people pushing against the wind to close the doors. Finally the door closed and we leaned against it in relief.  Then one of my daughters wanted to see the blizzard for herself. She went out in the back yard on the opposite side of the house, where the wind would not affect her.  What she saw caused the second panic of less than 5 minutes.  The wind had sucked the fire up from our wood stove. Flames and sparks streamed away from our house toward the stand of trees in our back yard. We then had to run water both up to the chimney, where my husband poured, trying to douse the flames, and down to the wood stove that was now screaming like a blast furnace.  Within a few heart-stopping minutes we had the fire out and stood to survey the damage.  We decided it was time to take a drive.  Our 4x4 Ford Explorer was able to break through the drifts on our driveway without a problem.  We took a short tour of the neighborhood.  Not another soul was out.  No one was on the road. Not one other car.  It was very sobering to think that no one was outside. Not one person would have noticed our house on fire. We could have gone to bed while the fire took over the house.  I think we had a little help that night.  As stressful as that episode was, I’m grateful that it happened.  If the windows had been clear, if the front door had been easily opened and shut, if we had no reason to look in the back yard, we would not have seen our fire.  I’m grateful for the seemingly annoying things that happened that night that ultimately blessed our family.

I made a mistake at work today.  I feel sick whenever I think about it. One of the professors I work with is probably the world’s authority on a particular fossil record.  He found a superb specimen of that particular fossil for sale on EBAY. The problem was that the auction ended while he was in class teaching. He asked me to go into his office, use his computer and bid with about 10 seconds remaining. The current bid was in the mid-$20 range.  He told me to bid an astronomical amount.  He said he wanted that fossil and he didn’t care how much it cost. I was not worried. I am an avid EBAY-er.  Bidding at the last moment was not new to me. I was more worried that I would get distracted and forget to go do the deed.  With 15 minutes to go I decided to go in and hit refresh every minute or so to make sure I was ready when the time drew near.  I watched the time dwindle down.  With 15 seconds to go I decided to place the bid.  I hit “submit” and then “confirm”. The computer didn’t seem to do anything for a second, so I hit “confirm” again.  The message “We are sorry, but this auction is closed” blazed on the screen.  I felt like crying and a knot immediately formed in my stomach. How could I tell him the fossil he entrusted me to buy for several hundreds of dollars went for $20 to someone else?  I wanted to go home for the day. Immediately.  Before he got out of class. Instead I stayed and watched for him to come down the hall.  When I told him I didn’t bid in time he thought I was kidding him.  He was a good sport when he finally realized that I was telling the truth, but I still feel awful.

 

Sometimes I think about how different things are now compared to times long ago. In many ways the changes are good.  How hard would it be to have children 100 years or more ago, and watch them die one by one?  There is one particular family in my genealogy that had such heartbreak that now when I look at their family statistics my heart breaks with them.  They had a baby boy and named him John. He lived a short while and died.  Soon after that they had another little boy and named him John.  He also died while still an infant.  The next male child that came along was also named John.  I can’t imagine the feelings of that family as they buried one after another of their children.

 

I am so grateful for the medical advances in the last 100 years.  If not for these neither I nor my husband would even be alive!  My husband, Mike, was born 50 years ago in Seattle.  His mother had negative blood. Mike’s older sister was born with positive blood which set up the stage for his mother’s immune system to attack the baby she was currently carrying.  Mike was born 6 weeks early,  his blood was being poisoned by his mother’s blood; he was an RH factor baby. The University of Washington Medical Center had never done a total blood transfusion on a newborn before, but they did it that day and saved his life. The doctor called Mike his miracle baby for years. 

 

My medical miracle happened 22 years ago.  I had a pregnancy that I thought was going along fine. Then in my 4^th month I started hemorrhaging a lot.  It was discovered that I had a Molar Pregnancy (hydatiform mole). After my treatment was complete I happened to ask the doctor whether this particular problem was hereditary, as my grandmother said she had experienced something similar.  His reply stopped me cold.  “No, it’s not hereditary. Women used to bleed to death from this.

 

Technology nowdays in the area of communication boggles my mind.  I can post a blog here in Idaho and seconds later it can be read and responded to by people all across the world. I can make new friends from Miami or Alberta or Africa in a blink of an eye. When my daughter lived in Cincinnati for a couple of years I would talk to her on her cell phone at least once a day, sometimes two or three times a day.  We were connected over the miles, involved in each other’s lives, and our relationship grew stronger.  I think about the many mothers and fathers who watched their grown children move away, maybe to the unexplored west, maybe across the Atlantic.  Did they ever hear from their children again?  If they did get a letter, maybe it was dated months earlier.  What has happened since then?  Are they okay?  I am grateful for the miracle of modern communication.

 

I am also grateful for the miracle of the internet.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get to visit the many places on earth that I would like. But I can go there on a virtual tour.  If I ever need information about the periodic table (to answer a question from Joni), or find out the phone number of the new Wal-Green store in town, or find an old room mate from college, all I have to do is google.

 

And if I want to buy a rare fossil from Bolivia for my friend and colleague to apologize for my mistake all I have to do is Ebay.

 

 

Today I’m feeling a bit sad and contemplative.  Life is going so fast and I am not. I’ve lived almost half a century and yet there are so many things not yet experienced.

Things I’ve wanted to do in my lifetime:

Ø      Visit New England in the fall

Ø      Sculpture a bust

Ø      Visit New York City

Ø      See a live performance of Phantom

Ø      Cross-country ski

Ø      Water ski

Ø      Go to the Louvre

Ø      Write a book

Ø      Go to Egypt

Ø      Throw a pot

Ø      See and then hike the Grand Canyon

Ø      Hike up to Tablerock

Ø      Go on vacation to paint

Ø      Paint a Tromp L’oeil on my walls

Ø      Visit the Mayan ruins

Ø      Go to the Smithsonian

Ø      Go on a cruise

Ø      Hike the Appalachian Trail

Ø      Go camping for a week

Ø      Go to Greece

Ø      Learn to scuba dive

Ø      Scuba dive in Belize

 

I’m feeling the years stealing my dreams. Some things can never be done due to physical limitations. Some things will never be done due to financial limitations. Some things are attainable. I just need to focus my energy on achieving them.  I need to re-dream some new dreams, ones that I can live for and work for. I mourn for the loss of dreams unattainable. But I can not dwell on those.  There are yet things to experience that I have not contemplated. I need to look forward for those.

 

When the holiday season rolls around I get a little nostalgic for the simpler times. One of those memories that popped into my head this week was growing up using a party line.

 

For those of you who are unfamiliar with party lines, let me explain.  The phone company, with their infinite wisdom, decided it would create a feeling of unified community if every neighborhood  shared one phone line.  Through the miracle of early technology they were able to create different codes of rings for each household.  One family might have one ring and another two rings, for example.  Now the idea was that when your ring would jangle, you would answer the phone.  If the neighbors ring code  burst forth, you were to politely ignore the intrusion on your quiet and solitude. It was a great system.  So much room for fun and mischief.

 

I'm not really sure who was on our party line besides a neighboring family and an old widow. 

 

The family we shared with had daughters.  Those daughters had boyfriends.  Now, I was only about 8 or 9 years old, so I thought all that mushy stuff was pretty gross, and terribly interesting.  It required great skill to listen in.  First you would hear their ring (2 short jingles), then you would wait about 30 seconds.  (Pick up too quick and they would hear you, pick up too slow and they would already be done talking.) Then, pick up the receiver while holding down the button. Then, most critically, very very slowly release the button.  Most of the time we could do this without detection.  Then listen......("so..... what do you want to do?", ".......I don't care","......Can I come over?", ".......sure")  It was terribly exciting and so fun to be the spy.  Wow, teenagers sure talked about exciting things.  The trick was to not lose control and let out a snicker or a snort.  That would tip off the love-birds and end the call.

 

One of the hardest parts about having a party line was trying to run a business using it.  My dad's retail business was in this predicament.  If you needed to make a call you were supposed to slowly lift the receiver and listen for a dial tone.  If instead you heard talking you were to hang up and try again later.  On one occasion my dad was in a hurry to make an important phone call.  He lifted the phone and heard our old neighbor widow lady talking to another older lady.  He hung up and paced for about 8 seconds when he tried it again.  Still talking, so he hung up (not too quietly) and paced for about 5 seconds and picked it up again. Now, my dad was a little short-changed when they were handing out patience, and it unfortunately showed that day.

 

When he picked up the phone the last time he heard, "Who keeps picking up the phone?". My dad responded, "Well if you old heifers wouldn't tie up the phone so much I wouldn't have to."

 

"Heifers?, who are you calling heifers? Who is this?"      ~Click~   My dad replaced the receiver. And then he didn't dare use the phone, for then they would know who he was.

 

When our neighbor, 3 doors down, moved out suddenly they left cats behind. There were some serious problems in their family and I honestly believe they were doing the best they could.  They left 4 large bags of cat food open on the floor. A hole was cut in one of the windows which the cats used to enter and exit. But the cat food ran out about 2 months later  and that's when they migrated down to my house.

 

One of the cats was Mr. Burns.  an extremely large gentle old tabby.  There was also a pregnant calico named Snickers. A month later Snickers had 5 kittens. We already had a dog and 2 house cats, so we were up to 10 animals.  We knew we couldn't handle that many pets so began to find homes for them. 

 

I placed an ad in the paper stating, "free cats".  The first call was from a very nice lady who lived in a small town 5 miles away.  She wanted a "big old cat that would just lay around and be lazy".  I had the perfect cat for her!  Mr. Burns was the perfect fit.  He did everything slowly.  he walked slow, he laid down slow, even his purr was slow and steady. She came to have a look and was instantly smitten.  I was very happy that Mr. Burns found such a loving family to adopt him.  I would miss him, but I knew it was for the best. She borrowed my pet carrier and took away loveable old Mr. Burns. Two days later she dropped the carrier off at my husband's office and we put the whole thing behind us. That is until 3 days later, I came home from work one day and there was Mr. Burns, lazily sitting on my front porch. He travelled 5 miles crossing a major freeway.  I was very surprised and happy to see him and decided it was meant to be.  He needed to be our pet.

 

After finding homes for all but one of the kittens we thought it best to give away Snickers, the calico mommy cat. Snickers was a very temperamental kitty.  She loved people to pet and hold her, but turned threatening and vicious if any other animal was in sight. More than once she has chased my dog across the yard. She really needed to be the only animal in the house. I put a notice in the newsletter where I work. The next day one of the professors came to ask about the cat.  I told him this cat was kind of bi-polar and needed to be an only cat.  He assured me that his wife really wanted another cat and that they would like to try giving it a home.  I told them they could take it on a trial basis, but if it didn't work out they could bring it back. He took Snickers to his home 3 miles west of where we live.

 

Every couple of days I would get an update.  "Your cat sure doesn't like other cats around, but we'd like to try it for a few more days", and "Your cat wandered over to the neighbors house when they had a barbecue out back and they loved him!", and "your cat keeps crossing the road, I'm afraid it's going to be hit by a car."  This went on for about 4 weeks.  I heard about his food choices, his preferred sleeping arrangements, and his continued lack of socialization with the other cats. 

 

One day the professor said, "I haven't seen your cat for a few days."  I thought she must have either been hit by a car or found a nice home without any kitty competition.  I preferred to think she was happily adopted by a lonely petless elderly couple who were doting on her and giving her all the attention and warmth she craved.  I thought that this chapter was now closed and I could concentrate on my remaining pets.  About a week passed.  I came home late one afternoon exhausted after a very emotionally trying week.  As I pulled up to the garage I thought I was hallucinating.  Snickers came running out of the garage toward me. She was pretty skinny and dirty, but really happy to see me.

 

She had to cross two highways, a river, and brave below freezing weather and a snow storm.  I don't know how she did it. 

 

My dog, Oscar, followed some neighbor dogs into the back yard last year and got lost for two days. Our property is about 5 acres, but that's still pretty sad that he couldn't find his way home.  I guess cats are just better at direction than dogs are, at least than MY dog is.

I guess that’s why the phrase “cats rule and dogs drool” came to be.  But I guess I can put up with some drool and barking and chasing around the house after the cats and  chewing up the cell phone and begging from the table and slobbing on the kittens ears and….. I guess I still like my mentally challenged dog the best.

 

 

My week has been an amazing rollercoaster ride of emotions. How much change can one person adjust to? endure?

 

I have already written about the amazing birth of my first grandson. It was amazing because it happened in our family.  Births happen all the time.  You see babies wherever you go, in stores, in church, sitting in the back of passing cars, on tv, being pushed in strollers down the street,....Everywhere! There's definitely something different about it when it happens to you.  You see the miracle of it, you feel the uniqueness, and love every minute.  Tuesday was definitely a high for me, Nathan's birth day. 

 

Life sometimes feels the need to balance you out a little.  Too much good without it's counter is not going to teach you anything.  My Thursday helped balance me back a little.

 

My father, who has cancer, was scheduled for a chemotherapy treatment on Thursday morning.  I have been the person in our family to go to every doctor appointment to take notes and ask questions.  That way I can send out the information to the rest of my large family and keep them all informed.  This particular day I did not go with my dad. The doctor said that all they would do is a blood test and then the Chemo treatment, which lasts about 6 hours. I received a phone call at work from my mother.  Dad's blood test showed very low levels.  He was too sick to have the treatment.  He had 3 shots before they sent him home and told him he would have to go back for more.  Maybe he would be well enough to have the Chemo next Tuesday. It was very disappointing.  Chemo is most effective if done on schedule.  We didn't want to have any delays.

 

Later that afternoon I was driving my daughter, Abby, to the high school to drop her off and then I was going to head up to the hospital to see my new grandson.  I had almost reached the school when my cell phone rang.  It was the coach of the JV basketball team.  My son Andy had dislocated his knee. I told them I would be right there as I was only a block away. I could hear the yelling before I entered the gym.  The entire team was standing in a circle around Andy who was lying on the floor, screaming his head off.  I could see the patella bone bulging on the side of Andy's right leg. Two coaches were helping him.  They had a wheelchair and were trying to lift him up into it. One coach did his best to keep his leg at the most unpainful angle possible. Somehow they got him in the chair and proceeded to wheel him out to my waiting Explorer.  An Explorer is not a small car.  I didn't think we'd have a problem, but Andy's not a small boy.  He stands at 6 foot one inch and weighs about 200 pounds. After a few minutes we realized there was no way we were going to be able to move him into the car.  I called 911 and ask for an ambulance. It was a freezing cold night.  Andy is outside next to my car in a wheelchair, clothes dripping wet from sweat, yelling and thrashing.  I had a quilt in the car left over from watching frigid soccer games the week before and wrapped him up while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. In just a couple of moments we could hear the sirens. I prayed that the motorists would pull off to the side of the road quickly allowing the ambulance to arrive faster.

 

When they arrived they assessed the situation and decided there was no way they could move him without deadening the pain somewhat.  They would start an IV and administer morphine. It was dark and cold. Andy was dehydrated from a hard workout and his vessels were constricted with the cold.  They tried and tried to find a vein and were unsuccessful. Many people were starting to arrive at the school for the opening night of the musical. One by one people would stop to help.  A nurse, a lab tech, another EMT. Finally they started an IV in his hand and got the morphine flowing.  They then put an inflatable brace around Andy's leg and started to pump it up. Andy's kneecap, mercifully, popped back into place. They were then able to lift him out of the wheelchair and up onto the gurney.  Throughout the entire episode I held my emotions in check.  It was only as I was driving up to the hospital, for a moment, that I had a little break-down.  It broke my heart to see my baby, all six feet of him, hurting and helpless. I was so grateful for the good people who did there best to help Andy.

 

Once I got Andy home from the hospital and settled in the recliner with the TV remote in his hand, I was able to head back to the hospital once again.  This time I was going to hold my grandson for the first time. It was quite late, about 10:30, when the entire family, (minus Andy), congregated in the tiny hospital room.  We oohed and ahhed and felt the closeness of a family bonded together through the common celebration of welcoming it's newest member. I had to go out out in the hall for something and I noticed many small children, a few teens and a couple adults gathered there.  The children were sobbing as if there hearts were breaking. There was grief and unbelief in all of their faces. I realized with a start that they had just lost a family member. 

 

It really made me pause.  I was feeling the stresses of the day with all the many ups and downs?  I was mentally exhausted - until I witnessed the grief of the family in the hall. Suddenly my little trials didn't seem so unique. I had a pretty good day, considering. My day was filled with good friends, new life, a little stress and pain, and an opportunity to mother my son. I didn't have to deal with death today.  Another day I will, but not today.

 

 

 

What is it about new babies?  They don't do much. They cry and eat and mess in their diapers and just lay there. They just lay there and steal your heart and turn you into an emotional, goo-goo talking, formerly mature day-dreamer.

 

My first grandson was born yesterday.  They induced labor at 8 in the morning.  My son kept me informed all day through the miracle of text-messaging.

 

7:55 am  "We're in the hospital and we're not coming home alone"

8:09 am "She just got induced ten min ago"

noon "They just put her on oxygen"

12:15 pm "Water broke"

2:07 pm "She's a four and she has an epidural in"

2:21 pm "No baby yet and not much happening"

and then

3:42 "C section"

4:10 "Come now!"

The thoughts that run through your head as you're racing to the hospital.  Hopeful and fearful.  When we arrived the baby was already here. He breathed in meconium and had to be taken straight to NICU.

Nathan Isaiah was born at 4:15. He weighed 6 lb 1 oz and was 20 inches long. He's doing well now and should be back in his mama's room by tomorrow evening. What a cutie! My first try at being a grandma had fantastic results.

 

Last week my brother, Storyteller, reminded me of my youthful obsession with the spooky show “Night Gallery”. I’ve since been obsessed with “Twilight Zone”, “X-Files”, and  "Highlander". For some reason I am drawn to the odd, spooky, weird, and supernatural.  When a show on aliens or supernatural phenomenon comes on TV my husband will call out “your kind of show is on”.

 

One aspect of my fascination comes from that little thrill you get when you hear something that can’t possibly be true. Or can it?  It is a little thrill of fear.

 

Fear (n): synonymous with terror, dread, horror, fright, panic, alarm, trepidation, and apprehension

 

Here are some common fears.

 

“I’m Scared, But I Probably Won’t Die”

 (scary movies, rollercoaster rides, spooky stories told around a campfire)

 

You may have a hard time going to sleep because of this kind of fear, but you probably won’t be harmed physically.  My son Andy has this kind of fear. Andy is my 6 foot 1 inch sixteen year old, and for some reason the movie “Mothman” got under his skin. He refuses to go unaccompanied outside at night. When I press him to “please get my book from the car”, he will give me a “you’ve got to be kidding” look and say, “Mothman”, as if that explains it all. Last June, our family flew to Cincinnati for my oldest daughter’s graduation.  We were there for about 5 days. A week later we were back home in Idaho and Andy was looking at an Atlas of Ohio. Suddenly he let out a high-pitched squeal. I hurried to see what was the matter. He showed me how close Cincinnati was to Point Pleasant. I’m just glad he didn’t know about that before the trip.

            We watch scary movies all the time and have discovered that if things get too intense all you have to do is turn the sound off.  It’s that dang music that gets you all worked up. My daughter Lisa, who teaches Music 101, shows a segment of “Signs” to her class. It is near the end where the alien is in the house. The music changes from scary to hopeful when they finally put 2 and 2 together about the helpful qualities of good old H²O. 

 

Phobias: inexplicable or illogical fear

(claustrophobia, agoraphobia, hydrophobia, or arachnophobia)

 

I went to the grocery store last week and purchased many items, including Hobo spider traps. (Hobos are large, very fast poisonous spiders that love to migrate indoors every fall.)  When I was at the checkout a young female employee was routinely scanning item after item. She picked up the trap, flipped it over so the bar code was down, saw the picture of the Hobo on the front and promptly screamed and threw the traps into the air.  She was red in the face with embarrassment; everyone around her was red in the face from laughing.

It’s not so funny, though, when you are the one with the phobia. My illogical fear is of mice.  Spiders don’t bother me.  I have been known to squash a spider with my finger if there wasn’t a shoe handy. But let a mouse run across the room and I will do my best to keep both feet off the ground while screaming hysterically.  I have had some terrifying experiences with the ferocious little beasts that makes it perfectly logical as to why I am reduced to sobbing and making high leaps onto anything close by, but I’ll save those stories for another day.

 

“I Can’t See It" or "I Don’t Know What It Is” or Fear of the Unknown:

 

Death would come under this category.  I truly believe that if we knew what happens when we die we wouldn’t be scared of it anymore.  I don’t have this particular fear.  What I am afraid of is the pain and suffering that comes before death, but come to think of it, I have given birth to 5 children, had multiple gall bladder attacks, and have chronic back pain. I guess pain is all that bad, so there’s nothing to worry about.

             

Fear of ghosts, spirits, or any other manifestation from the other side is another one. Another of my daughters, Abby, has had a few experiences with the supernatural. She will be in her room trying to go to sleep and her lamp will suddenly light up. Also on many occasions she felt someone breathing right in her face. She was not afraid, but annoyed that she was not able to sleep.  When she told me about it I told her it was probably her deceased grandpa coming to check on her.  All she needed to do was say out loud, “Hi grandpa.  I’m glad you’re here, but I need to get some sleep so please stop breathing in my face.” The very next night she reported that it happened again and she took my advice. The breathing stopped and Abby was able to sleep.  I think maybe I would have been wide awake after that!

            I was walking my dog, Oscar, around the cemetery one afternoon while waiting for Andy to finish up with the weed-whacking there.  There was noone else in the cemetery and it was a quiet peaceful afternoon. All of a sudden, Oscar jumped and started growling and barking at one particular spot under a tree.  He circled around this spot, barking the whole time.  It was exactly the same kind of bark he used when a stranger would show up at our door.  I know there was someone there that Oscar could see, and I couldn’t. Was I scared? No. If anything I was jealous.  I would like to be able to see a little bit more than what I see. Does that make me weird?  Maybe.

 

Real Fear

I do fear for the safety of my family, that they will not be harmed or make poor choices. I am afraid that I haven’t been the kind of mother I should have been (good mothers don’t have to be good cooks, do they?).  I’m sure that if I fell off a cliff I would experience real fear as I traveled down. 

 

I believe in the scripture, “If ye are prepared, ye shall not fear.”  I guess I have a bit more preparation to do.

I love my job. I am a Geology Lab Supervisor.  At this university I oversee the weather station, web site, museum,  library and help the geology labs run smoothly.  Throughout my life I've always picked up interesting or pretty rocks and loved anything science related, so the fit was good when I came to work here. 

 

Geologists are the most down-to-earth people I know (and that's not just a pun).  I work with 6 men who have their doctorates in geology, one even did post-doc work at the Smithsonian Institute for 2 years.  On paper, a pretty intimidating group.  But these guys are funny, and kind, and just the salt of the earth.  (sorry, another pun).  I look forward to going to work every day, and that's a great feeling.

 

At work a couple of days ago I heard a story about another lab supervisor, in another department, that made me even more glad that I work here with good old hard, inanimate rocks.  If you are squeamish at all you may wish to stop reading now.

 

In the Biology department there is an Anatomy and Physiology Lab that has a cadaver disecting room.  This is where aspiring students learn gross anatomy and test themselves on their suitability to entering the medical field. A local high school biology class decided to take advantage of their close proximity to such fine facilities and took a field trip to this lab.  Our university does all it can to help out with these tours and scheduled a very knowledgable lab assistant to guide the tour. This guide took the students in to view the cadavers.  Desiring to help all he could, he used a pencil to point out various muscles. With the tip of the pencil he lifted the outer muscles to expose the deeper tissues and show the complexities of the marvelous human body. The lab assistant, seeing that the group was very impressed with his grand knowledge and expertise, paused, asked if there were any questions, and.. then... stuck the pencil in his mouth. 

 

His face froze and the color drained, leaving him as white as the cadaver next to him. He then proceeded to "toss his cookies", which seemed to have a contagious effect on many of the students in the room. 

 

Needless to say,  I'm glad I work in geology.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It used to bother me when I heard comments about how pretty or beautiful other women were.  Why?  Does their beauty somehow negate my worth?  No, the answer was just plain old jealousy.  Why should they have that look and not I? I used to yearn for someone to tell me how beautiful or pretty I am. (Parents and daughters exempt) It never happened, and never will. At least not in the way I used to wish for. Why is there an obsession with beauty anyway?

 

Test studies show that children think prettier teachers are nicer. “Beautiful people” are more likely to get hired, promotions, dates, compliments, and smiled at (unless a homely person is looking at them jealously).

 

Is there a correlation between your weight and beauty?  You bet your thunder-thighs there is?  My daughter, Joni, was with a group of college students the other day when one of the boys was trying to describe a girl he just met.  He said, “she was very beautiful, very thin” three times until Joni said sardonically, “we got it, she was beautiful and thin.” 

 

This obsession with beauty spills over into an “thin” obsession.  We’ve all seen the tabloid cover shots of cadaverous actresses, role models for the teenage masses.  If you wear a size 12 or larger you are somehow less desirable.

 

I guess I have been thinking about this a lot this past week because of the death of a former classmate.  She didn’t really stand a chance in this world of shallow values. Cindy Jo was a nice quiet girl from a poor single parent family.  She lived in a one room house with her mother and a brother who had a hard time staying out of jail.  She was overweight and not what the world would call beautiful.  Some cruel boys in first grade christened her “Porky Pig” and the nickname stuck. I always tried to be pleasant to her, but we were never what you would call friends.  I’ve seen her on and off over the years. She graduated from high school, went to work on the same factory line as her mother, and never moved from the one room house.  Her health declined, her kidneys failed, and at the age of 48 she died. When her picture appeared in the paper in the death notices it was a glamour shot.  You know those photo shoots where you get all dolled up and the photographer does his best to make you look like a movie star. There she was, looking as much like the world’s definition of beauty as she could, obviously still yearning for society's definition of beauty.

 

A quote that I use a lot is “Life isn’t fair, get used to it”.  Never has it applied more than to Cindy Jo.  I hope that the imbalance of her, and my, shortcomings are somehow counterpoised with other matters of worth. Maybe those of us of the plainer folk variety are more interesting, more thoughtful, more deep. Maybe we are funnier, more caring, more kind.  There should be a trade-off, right? 

I had on my mind to write about something entirely different today.  Then I took a peek at my brother's space and read about his experience wrestling in high school.  It was too coincidental that just last night my daughter had stopped by and told me a little concerning HER high school athletic career.

 

A little background:

Joni, my 20 year old, is a natural and accomplished athlete.  She had always been very tall for her age growing up so we put her in every sport we could.   She excelled.  She had the perfect body for basketball and volleyball. She stopped growing finally at 5'11". She had the perfect mind for it. She graduated high school with a 4.0 taking honors classes.  She was a smart player.  She had the perfect "drive" to excell in sports. "Drive" or "being competitive" was an inherited trait she got from her father. She always wanted to be the best and would do whatever it took to keep herself at the top of her game.  She made it onto the 8th grade volleyball and basketball teams as a 7th grader.  Something that had not been done in our district before.  As an 8th grader she was the top scorer in basketball in the entire district.  That's when the problems began.

 

Going into her Freshman year the high school basketball coach approached us, as parents, and ask if he could take Joni up to the high school team. We were flattered. We were happy that she would have such an awesome opportunity. We were glad that her talents were being recognized, so we said okay.  Since volleyball season is first we expected Joni to play 9th grade volleyball and then high school basketball. One day into the V-ball tryouts, the high school volleyball coach called us up and asked us to  let Joni come and play on her team.  In two seperate sports she had jumped onto the varsity team, skipping both the 9th grade and the Jr. Varsity teams.  On paper it sounds like a dream come true.  It was more like a nightmare.

 

Joni's best friend, also an athlete, was jealous.  The friendship ended. Her other friends forgot about her.  She was so involved with the team she wasn't around for fun.  The older girl's resented her, especially the ones on Jr. Varsity. Their parents resented us. Rumors flew that we had called the coach, begging him to take our daughter up.  Joni was a target.  For four years she was a target. I will always regret letting her jump ahead.  She was still the best athlete on the team, but her emotional state was a wreck.

 

She decided not to play inter-college sports, grades are too important to her. She is attending a university that allows her to play sports competitively, but just for fun. Yesterday she was talking to a college friend and the subject of high school came up.  The friend confided that she heard some of Joni's former high school team mates were still saying negative things about her. Joni said, "I just want to get away from here and go where no one knows me".

 

I guess one lesson Joni learned from her trial was compassion.  She worked with handicapped kids during high school, (they didn't judge her) and is going to start nursing school next summer. I heard so many people say that high school was the best time of their life.  I'm sad for them.   High school was a refining fire for me and my family. Something to endure and try to learn from. But I'll always believe that the best is still coming.

 

Last year I was listening to a NPR program about people who survived the jump from the Golden Gate Bridge. It hit me hard and stuck in my mind for days afterward. I recently reread my journal and found an entry that reminded me once again of the one story that totally caught my attention. 

 

“I didn’t really want to jump, but found myself driving my car to the bridge.  I lingered for a while trying to find a reason not to do it. I found myself walking over to the edge.  I kept telling myself that if just one person asked me if I was okay I wouldn’t do it.  I moved slowly, waiting, hoping.  Then I heard someone approaching.  I heard them call out to me and turned and thought, “it’s okay now, I’m safe”.  A lady held out a camera toward me and asked if I would take a picture for her.  I said “sure, sure” and wiped the tears out of my eyes, (she didn’t even notice), took the picture, and when she left, I jumped.”

 

That story gave me pause.  Have I ever been someone’s lifeline and been so caught up in my own living that I didn’t notice the pleading eyes, or the aching heart?  I know I have been.  That is one of my many faults. I need to work on that.

 

“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Into his nest again, I shall not live in vain.”
--Emily Dickinson

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The older I get the more I think I understand some things.  I think I "get it" why my mom would sigh when we used to ask her for things.  I think I understand why my dad would get impatient when we didn't weed the garden the way he wanted.  Back then I didn't think it mattered how fast or slow I went.  Now I get it.

 

Just like the cliche that you don't really know someone until you walk a mile in their shoes.  I guess cliches are cliches for a reason.  They are true.  As I approach my birthday I am finding myself reflecting on my experiences of the last year.  There are a few other things that I finally get.

 

We've all heard stories about children who have been abducted or lost.  Heart wrenching stories.  The family at first is upset and panicky, yet optimistic about recovery, then as the hours roll on without success they are enfulfed in pain.  If the child is not found the grief-stricken parents just want to know what happened.

 

I lost Oscar, my dog, last year.  He's just a dog. He was sometimes naughty, sometimes fun, and sometimes a pain in the derriere.  One day he followed the neighbor's dogs and was gone.  The neighbor's dogs came back, but not Oscar.  We searched and called for hours that night.  It is cold in Idaho in November.   There was snow on the ground, and he was an inside dog.   I went to bed that night without finding him.  I searched for him all the next day.  The whole time I was looking for him I kept thinking that if I hurt this much over a stupid dog how much more must parents of lost children hurt.  That's when I started to understand them.  Just a particle. I don't pretend to have their pain.  I just glimpsed at it.  He was just a dog, not a child.

 

My husband, a schoolteacher, announced to all the students in his school that we were offfering a reward for our lost dog.  We put up flyers around town, and an ad in the newspaper.  People were so kind.  They called and called with hints and sightings.  How often had I glanced at posters, not really looking at them?  That would change.  After one tip we took off in the car and found him a mile away, covered with snow, trudging down the middle of the country road whimpering.

 

Ours was a happy ending. And I did learn some things.

#1. Pay attention to "lost" posters.  Study the pictures and look at faces in the crowd.  You may be the one to find and bring someone home.

#2. Be compassionate to other's pain.  If you haven't had the same pain, don't dismiss theirs and think it's not real.  Be grateful you haven't had to experience it.

#3. And, lock up your dog.

Names are fascinating.  Especially those you choose for yourself.  It makes me wonder about people who choose “Stinky”, or “Athematics”.  What’s the story behind that? Names are an introduction.  When you see the name "Storyteller" you expect (and are not disappointed) to finding some great stories.  Way to go, brother!

I chose “Mitchowl”.  I did this when I was trying to come up with a name for my art studio.  I settled on “Mitchowl Studios”.  It suits me just fine. The reason for the “Mitch” part is obvious to anyone who knows me.  The owl part……well, let’s just say I have a thing for owls.  They are characterized as wise and they do their best work at night.  None of this morning lark stuff for me. I come alive as the sun goes down. I was lucky enough to marry a man who understands. (When my dad says he got up at 6:00 this morning, my husband says, "That's not morning, that's the middle of the night!") He does his best to let me sleep in.  As for the wise part, let’s just say I’m working on that.

I was in the third grade the first time I saved an animal.  One of my school friends took us to her house during the lunch break and showed us the puppies. Her mother said, “if we can’t find homes for them today I’m going to take them to the pound.”  My tender heart compelled me to immediately phone my mother and launch into a pleading frenzy. I took a very grateful puppy home with me on the school bus that day.

 

My next opportunity came almost 40 years later. At that time we had 1 dog and 1 cat. One day I went with my husband to Rigby (a small town 12 mile away), to water a garden that he was in charge of. This garden was nestled between a freeway, a highway, and a tire store.  There, in the middle of the pumpkins, was the scrawniest kitten I’d ever seen.  It ran right up to us meowing very hungrily.  I couldn’t see how it would survive if we left it.  It would have to cross a very busy road to get anywhere.  We now had 1 dog and 2 cats.

 

The family next door went out of town for 2 weeks at Christmas.  “Could we take care of their 3 dogs while they were gone?” Sure.  We showered them with love and attention, maybe a little too much.  When the family returned their small Shitzu would run over to our house every chance he got.  He would bark or scratch to be let in.  How could I say no? Soon he was at our house as much as he was at home.  Then our neighbors started to build a new house.  They were gone a lot and the dogs were neglected.  My tender heart did what it had to.  We now basically had 4 dogs and 2 cats.

 

The neighbor’s house was finished in a year.  They took their two small dogs with them and left the huge white husky dog in the kennel with the grandparents next door.  It howled hungrily and I would take it water and food. I couldn’t leave him in a pen so filthy.  I dragged over a shovel from home and did what I could.  My kids and I would walk him when the neighbors were gone, the only time he ever got out of his pen.  He’s still there.  My heart hurts for him every time I take my own dog on a walk.  He sees us and starts to howl.

 

Last spring another neighbor had a family crisis and moved.  They left large opened bags of cat food on the floor and the back window of the house open.  After about a month some very hungry cats found their way down to my house. I bought cheap cat food and left it in the garage where it disappeared. The calico cat was noticeably pregnant. 

 

I put an ad in the paper, “Free Cats”.  A very nice lady showed up from the next town over and took home the biggest, oldest, tamest cat.  We cried a little, he was such a nice cat, but we were glad he was going to such a great family.  Two days later he was back on our porch.  I guess he was just too old to learn any new tricks. We are giving him a nice retirement home. 

 

The Calico had five beautiful, calendar-picture-quality kittens. We now had 1 dog, 1 foster dog, and 9 cats.

 

Has it been a bad thing?  Not necessarily.  My kids have learned compassion and caring. They are more sensitive to other’s needs.  They, too, are tender-hearted.

I’d never dug a grave before.  As a 48 year old mother of five I’d just never had the occasion. So how did I find myself, with sandal-shod feet, on a crisp Idaho October evening digging and scrapping and shoveling at the gravel filled dirt?

 

I’d heard stories about Gary Kent since I was in infant. I somehow felt the responsibility to fill the gaping hole in my mother’s heart, as I was the first sibling to be born after Gary’s sudden passing at age 18 months.  It was an intangible kind of feeling, like knowing you were to be a good citizen, or a morally good person. You know of its importance, but it is such an elusive feeling.  My mother would say to me of Gary, “I’m sure Gary Kent told you all about our family before you were born and told you to be a good girl here on earth.” I would stretch back in my mind for that memory, unable to find it. I would hear stories of his short illness, the doctor visit with the charge to “come back in the morning if he’s not any better”, and the shock of finding him the next morning dead. 

 

It was like hearing about Great-grandpa Rubbra contracting Yellow Fever as he fought in the Boer War, or Grandma Haroldsen, who, as a young pregnant mother, cared for neighbors and family members who were sick with Small Pox only to later bare a stillborn son, infected with the disease.  Awful terrible stories that, even with the knowledge of their truth, still seemed somehow foreign and distant and intangible.

 

Then, my parents told me of their plan, to bring their baby home. They wanted to move his body to our town, to the cemetery plot they, themselves wished to be buried in. They asked me if my son, who worked on grounds at the cemetery would be able to dig the grave.  I said yes. The plans were made, the family notified, and the night before the re-burial arrived.  It was time to get started.  I took my strong 15 year-old son to the spot.  We had the dimensions; two feet wide, four feet long, three feet deep, and six inches from the newly moved headstone. Andy, my son had worked until midnight the night before in the potato harvest of our area and then got up early the next morning and went to school. He was worn out.  I could see it in his face.  His optimistic opinion that it would only take thirty minutes soon faded and I saw that he needed help. He was only down eighteen inches.  The gravel was packed hard. He pounded with the pick to loosen the dirt. I took the shovel from his hands and shoveled out the loosened soil.  He loosened, I shoveled.  Over and over until inch by inch we deepened the hole. I felt a kind of pride, or honor to do this.  I felt a closeness to the brother I had never known. It was becoming real.

 

The next morning we drove to the cemetery to attend the short service we had planned.  Cars were lined along the drive in front of the hole we had dug the night before.  I couldn’t see, and then, I saw.  The tiny white casket lay on the frame over the hole.  Suddenly it was tangible, very tangible. Here he was.  My brother. I felt as if we had just lost him.  I hugged my mother who said through her tears, “I forgot how small he was.”

 During the music a flock of migrating geese flew overhead. It was as if peace drifted down on us along with their cries.  I suddenly felt peaceful. We brought our brother and son home. Our family was once again complete.