Strange thoughts have been popping up in my head lately. Not often, but once in a while, I get this flash: Perhaps Mom was saved from the grips of death in order to have time to develop the relationship with me that we have never had.
I get these images of her and me spending the last few years of her life bonding like we never have before. She is a different person, open to new ideas, interested in other people, ready to have fun.
I have not nurtured this fantasy; I simply observe it when it arises in my brain. Whether it will manifest in reality is yet to be seen.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Spiritual Experience at the Museum of Jurassic Technology
My very favorite place in Los Angeles is the Museum of Jurassic Technology. For its strangeness, its eccentricity, its wonder. It's hardly a museum at all, if by "museum" one means a place where one goes to find out about the world. You see, in this museum not everything is to be taken as a fact, or it might be some fact, some whimsy, or just that someone had too much weed when he was writing the copy for the information plaques. You never really know.
First off, you have to be buzzed into the museum; you can't just walk through some grand entrance. The exhibits don't change, but that's OK because you have to keep going back to soak it in. There is an exhibit about folk remedies, like eating mice--fur, tails, and all--on a slice of toast to ward off bed-wetting. Then there's the Napoleon library and the wing devoted to the cat's cradle, yes, that string game you may have played in elementary school. Miniatures figure prominently, micro-miniatures, to be exact, teeny weeny sculptures balancing on the eyes of needles and delicate crystals fashioned into baskets of flowers that can only be seen under a microscope. And don't miss the trailer homes of the mid-1930s with two maps of the world that are lit up where trailer parks and trailer-home manufacturing operations were located in 1936, or so the map contends. If you didn't know, there was one of the former in Greenland and one of the latter in Mozambique. Hmmmm...this is precisely what I was mentioning earlier--authentic-looking photographs from the era showing families happily preparing meals within their tin homes juxtaposed with fabulist maps.
Upstairs is the Russian tearoom, complete with silver samovars and staffed by a Russian woman in her mid-30s. Next door is the theatre, which shows bizarre flicks, and between the two is a beautiful water closet with a toilet that has a silver handle that you pull in order to flush it. When I was at the museum last night, I used the toilet, only to find that others who had gone before me did not know what the silver handle was for.
Last night at the museum was a spiritual experience for me. I heard, along with friend Bob Martinez, a concert by Aurelia Shrenker and Eva Salina Primack, two beautiful young women who were backlit by candlelight and sang like angels or gypsies, take your pick. Bob and I sat in the front row, near enough to touch them. On my right sat two ladies adorned in costumes of the 1800s with touches from other time periods thrown in. Aurelia played the dulcimer, and Eva, the accordion. Both sang Georgian, Albanian, Greek, Corsican, and Appalachian tunes, some so painfully sad and beautiful that I was close to tears.
As they sang, I fell in love with them, there's no other expression that describes the way I felt. They were so beautiful and their souls, which poured forth through their music, were so beautiful, and I wanted to be as close as I possibly could to that beauty. Isn't that a good definition of "being in love"? I hugged and thanked both of them afterwards and told Aurelia that this had been a spiritual experience for me. Bob and I then wandered about the museum, but returned for the 10 o'clock concert to hear the same songs once again.
Ah, what a magical evening! Two angels at my favorite place in LA. It just doesn't get much better.
First off, you have to be buzzed into the museum; you can't just walk through some grand entrance. The exhibits don't change, but that's OK because you have to keep going back to soak it in. There is an exhibit about folk remedies, like eating mice--fur, tails, and all--on a slice of toast to ward off bed-wetting. Then there's the Napoleon library and the wing devoted to the cat's cradle, yes, that string game you may have played in elementary school. Miniatures figure prominently, micro-miniatures, to be exact, teeny weeny sculptures balancing on the eyes of needles and delicate crystals fashioned into baskets of flowers that can only be seen under a microscope. And don't miss the trailer homes of the mid-1930s with two maps of the world that are lit up where trailer parks and trailer-home manufacturing operations were located in 1936, or so the map contends. If you didn't know, there was one of the former in Greenland and one of the latter in Mozambique. Hmmmm...this is precisely what I was mentioning earlier--authentic-looking photographs from the era showing families happily preparing meals within their tin homes juxtaposed with fabulist maps.
Upstairs is the Russian tearoom, complete with silver samovars and staffed by a Russian woman in her mid-30s. Next door is the theatre, which shows bizarre flicks, and between the two is a beautiful water closet with a toilet that has a silver handle that you pull in order to flush it. When I was at the museum last night, I used the toilet, only to find that others who had gone before me did not know what the silver handle was for.
Last night at the museum was a spiritual experience for me. I heard, along with friend Bob Martinez, a concert by Aurelia Shrenker and Eva Salina Primack, two beautiful young women who were backlit by candlelight and sang like angels or gypsies, take your pick. Bob and I sat in the front row, near enough to touch them. On my right sat two ladies adorned in costumes of the 1800s with touches from other time periods thrown in. Aurelia played the dulcimer, and Eva, the accordion. Both sang Georgian, Albanian, Greek, Corsican, and Appalachian tunes, some so painfully sad and beautiful that I was close to tears.
As they sang, I fell in love with them, there's no other expression that describes the way I felt. They were so beautiful and their souls, which poured forth through their music, were so beautiful, and I wanted to be as close as I possibly could to that beauty. Isn't that a good definition of "being in love"? I hugged and thanked both of them afterwards and told Aurelia that this had been a spiritual experience for me. Bob and I then wandered about the museum, but returned for the 10 o'clock concert to hear the same songs once again.
Ah, what a magical evening! Two angels at my favorite place in LA. It just doesn't get much better.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Friday Night with Heidi, Rudolph, and Special Banana Bread
It's been a long, hard couple of weeks. I needed a break, so I watched the DVD I had ordered from Netflix prior to Christmas but had not been able to view because of the mom drama. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" was tonight's fare. Yes, you heard right.
How many years--nay, dare I say decades--has it been since last I saw "Rudolph"! But recently I had heard a segment on NPR about a puppeteer who had rescued the original Rudolph from the trash bin and was restoring him to his former glory. This prompted me to put the DVD in my cue.
What a perfect complement Rudolph was to a few slices of "special" banana bread. This, too, was supposed to have been enjoyed on Christmas Day, but instead I froze it, knowing it would not be a good idea to pack it in my luggage. Those darned, working-overtime German shepherds!
I noticed things about the movie that I had not noticed as a child. Top of the list is that the male elves wore coats but no pants. And these coats covered their bums alright, but they were cut high in the front, revealing not only their crotches but the bottoms of their tummies too.
If you don't recall, the major theme is "Misfits have a place too." Remember, there's Rudolph whose nose precludes him from participating in the reindeer games but whose blinker comes in handy during a blizzard on Christmas Eve. Then there's Hermie, the elf who longs to be a dentist, and Yukon Cornelius, the prospector who never finds silver or gold. And there is the Island of Misfit Toys, a sad assembly of boats that can't float, a jack-in-the-box named Charlie, a bird that can't fly, and a train with square wheels--all abandoned by children who preferred conventionality to novelty. Even the abominable snowman is a misfit who finally finds his true calling--placing stars atop Christmas trees without the aid of a ladder.
All these misfits got me thinking: Why is it that the misfit story in all its multitudinous machinations is so common when there are truly so few misfits in our conformist society? It seems every coming-of-age story is about a misfit who saved the day and was embraced by his fellows for his inner beauty and his courage against the odds, yet, truly, how often have real misfits been so lauded? Perhaps after they're dead, sure enough, but when they're breathing? It's hard to come up with a single example.
Well, maybe this is all just the banana bread talking.
How many years--nay, dare I say decades--has it been since last I saw "Rudolph"! But recently I had heard a segment on NPR about a puppeteer who had rescued the original Rudolph from the trash bin and was restoring him to his former glory. This prompted me to put the DVD in my cue.
What a perfect complement Rudolph was to a few slices of "special" banana bread. This, too, was supposed to have been enjoyed on Christmas Day, but instead I froze it, knowing it would not be a good idea to pack it in my luggage. Those darned, working-overtime German shepherds!
I noticed things about the movie that I had not noticed as a child. Top of the list is that the male elves wore coats but no pants. And these coats covered their bums alright, but they were cut high in the front, revealing not only their crotches but the bottoms of their tummies too.
If you don't recall, the major theme is "Misfits have a place too." Remember, there's Rudolph whose nose precludes him from participating in the reindeer games but whose blinker comes in handy during a blizzard on Christmas Eve. Then there's Hermie, the elf who longs to be a dentist, and Yukon Cornelius, the prospector who never finds silver or gold. And there is the Island of Misfit Toys, a sad assembly of boats that can't float, a jack-in-the-box named Charlie, a bird that can't fly, and a train with square wheels--all abandoned by children who preferred conventionality to novelty. Even the abominable snowman is a misfit who finally finds his true calling--placing stars atop Christmas trees without the aid of a ladder.
All these misfits got me thinking: Why is it that the misfit story in all its multitudinous machinations is so common when there are truly so few misfits in our conformist society? It seems every coming-of-age story is about a misfit who saved the day and was embraced by his fellows for his inner beauty and his courage against the odds, yet, truly, how often have real misfits been so lauded? Perhaps after they're dead, sure enough, but when they're breathing? It's hard to come up with a single example.
Well, maybe this is all just the banana bread talking.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Looking for a Place for Mom
During the past few days, I have been visiting assisted-living facilities in Long Beach. I have stepped into places that each one of us pass on our way to the office or the store or a bar, but never venture inside. It's a world I knew existed but never cared to explore.
First off, these places ain't cheap. Not by a long shot. To get anything decent and private, you're shelling out between $2,500 and three grand a month. That includes three meals and three snacks a day, emergency pull cords in every room, and more activities than you ever had at summer camp. Exercise classes, yoga, current events, shopping trips, breakfasts and lunches out on the town, church services, card games, bingo, crafts, sing-alongs around the piano, book discussions, excursions to the Getty Museum and to Catalina.
But looking at the sign-up sheets for these events, I saw few names. Most residents, it seems, choose to nod off in the lounge or hang out by the front door. Are they waiting for a daughter or son who never arrives? It's a chilling thought I couldn't get out of my mind.
One place I visited yesterday, the Crofton Manor Inn, reminded me of cheap motel. Everyone from the housekeepers to the director to the woman who grabbed my hand and wouldn't let it go seemed a bit off-kilter. The carpet was worn, the halls were dark, the rooms were even darker. The "deluxe" one-bedroom looked down onto a wall of razor wire and vibrated with rap music coming from the apartment building next door. My tour guide also showed me a studio shared by two women whose beds were lined up, headboard to footboard, against one wall that barely left room to walk to the toilet. I couldn't leave this establishment fast enough.
In the end, I have decided on Healthview's Pine Villa. The staff are friendly and professional. Everyone from the maintenance man to the cook to the director seem genuinely happy to be there. The dining area looks like a restaurant. And best of all, my mom's room is sunny and cheerful. As it's the model apartment, it's nicely furnished, and the director said she would let my mom use everything that's there at no extra cost, since she's moving from Wisconsin and doesn't have any furniture. She'll have a small bedroom with a twin bed, dresser, and night table; a breakfast nook/kitchenette with table, chairs, microwave, and fridge; and a living room with couch, end table, and rocking chair. Both the bedroom and the living room have an eighth-story view of downtown and a slice of the ocean. If this apartment were in a non-senior building, I sure wouldn't mind living there. Though it's $400 more per month than my second pick, the room is so warm and inviting that I am hoping this will make my mother's transition easier.
Each day I talk with her on the phone, she seems more and more anxious, frenetic, yet the physical therapist tells me she's doing well. I wonder if this anxiety is part of the whole getting-unhooked-from-the-pain-meds syndrome. She's basically going through withdrawals. My mother is the only junkie I've ever had close contact with, so I'm not sure about all this, but it sure seems that's what's going on.
The only subject of concern now is whether the skilled nursing home where she is currently residing will mark "dementia" on the forms that must be filled out and faxed back to Pine Villa. If that's the case, then my mother will be confined to a locked floor and given a roommate. No sunny, cheerful, private room. No privacy. And another $600 a month. I would hate to see this happen to her. Surely, it would be the death of her.
First off, these places ain't cheap. Not by a long shot. To get anything decent and private, you're shelling out between $2,500 and three grand a month. That includes three meals and three snacks a day, emergency pull cords in every room, and more activities than you ever had at summer camp. Exercise classes, yoga, current events, shopping trips, breakfasts and lunches out on the town, church services, card games, bingo, crafts, sing-alongs around the piano, book discussions, excursions to the Getty Museum and to Catalina.
But looking at the sign-up sheets for these events, I saw few names. Most residents, it seems, choose to nod off in the lounge or hang out by the front door. Are they waiting for a daughter or son who never arrives? It's a chilling thought I couldn't get out of my mind.
One place I visited yesterday, the Crofton Manor Inn, reminded me of cheap motel. Everyone from the housekeepers to the director to the woman who grabbed my hand and wouldn't let it go seemed a bit off-kilter. The carpet was worn, the halls were dark, the rooms were even darker. The "deluxe" one-bedroom looked down onto a wall of razor wire and vibrated with rap music coming from the apartment building next door. My tour guide also showed me a studio shared by two women whose beds were lined up, headboard to footboard, against one wall that barely left room to walk to the toilet. I couldn't leave this establishment fast enough.
In the end, I have decided on Healthview's Pine Villa. The staff are friendly and professional. Everyone from the maintenance man to the cook to the director seem genuinely happy to be there. The dining area looks like a restaurant. And best of all, my mom's room is sunny and cheerful. As it's the model apartment, it's nicely furnished, and the director said she would let my mom use everything that's there at no extra cost, since she's moving from Wisconsin and doesn't have any furniture. She'll have a small bedroom with a twin bed, dresser, and night table; a breakfast nook/kitchenette with table, chairs, microwave, and fridge; and a living room with couch, end table, and rocking chair. Both the bedroom and the living room have an eighth-story view of downtown and a slice of the ocean. If this apartment were in a non-senior building, I sure wouldn't mind living there. Though it's $400 more per month than my second pick, the room is so warm and inviting that I am hoping this will make my mother's transition easier.
Each day I talk with her on the phone, she seems more and more anxious, frenetic, yet the physical therapist tells me she's doing well. I wonder if this anxiety is part of the whole getting-unhooked-from-the-pain-meds syndrome. She's basically going through withdrawals. My mother is the only junkie I've ever had close contact with, so I'm not sure about all this, but it sure seems that's what's going on.
The only subject of concern now is whether the skilled nursing home where she is currently residing will mark "dementia" on the forms that must be filled out and faxed back to Pine Villa. If that's the case, then my mother will be confined to a locked floor and given a roommate. No sunny, cheerful, private room. No privacy. And another $600 a month. I would hate to see this happen to her. Surely, it would be the death of her.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Caring for a Mother Who Never Cared for Me
When I was a child, my mother never told me she loved me. A few years back, when she saw how alone she had become, she began saying she loved me in a whiny voice that pleaded to me to say the same back to her.
I have never had a good time with her. No spontaneous hugs. No silliness. No belly laughs. No connection. Everything has always been about her. She doesn't even know what I do for a living, though I've told her hundreds of times.
During my childhood and young adulthood, her distance and disconnection upset me. But once I came to grips with who she was and what she would never be, I eased into a relationship of duty. Sending her greeting cards and flowers to cheer her. Visiting twice a year. Calling several times a week. Somehow it's much easier to know that she will never know anything about me, and by knowing this, I can give up vying for emotional intimacy.
But now that she is helpless, bonkers, zoned out on pain meds, deemed incompetent, I am now the best thing in the world because I am the only thing in her world. I am the life raft, and she's drowning.
This is not a pity-me diatribe from a 49-year-old slighted daughter. It's just that now that my sense of duty has to come into full swing, I sure wish that a loving bond or at least some good memories came along with the package.
So on Monday, the day after tomorrow, I'll be winging my way home to find a home for my mother.
I have been in Wisconsin now for almost two weeks, getting rid of her things, closing up her apartment, sorting through the mountains of unpaid bills and paperwork. I've seen her deemed incompetent and put in a skilled nursing home, where she is receiving rehab.
I am stressed, as this whole job is placed in my lap (though my dear son was here for a week to help). My brother in Milwaukee, just 25 miles away, wants nothing to do with her. He hasn't called or visited during these past two weeks. I also feel financially burdened, as I had to fly with Aaron out here on a moment's notice. Also, when she moves to Long Beach, I'm stuck there once again. My plan was to leave So Cal in May and begin anew. Now that doesn't seem to be in the cards. I feel trapped.
I've got to find a way to make this mountainous task a bit easier. I have no pleasant memories to reflect back upon, and her current state does little but produce pity, impatience, stress, a sense of being manipulated and used, and, yes, anger in me. I keep all this under wraps, of course, under the polite smile of duty. I am duty-bound to care for my mother, but, oh, how I wish my care for her were rather based on the love I have known for my son and he for me. But the opportunity for that was lost long ago.
I have never had a good time with her. No spontaneous hugs. No silliness. No belly laughs. No connection. Everything has always been about her. She doesn't even know what I do for a living, though I've told her hundreds of times.
During my childhood and young adulthood, her distance and disconnection upset me. But once I came to grips with who she was and what she would never be, I eased into a relationship of duty. Sending her greeting cards and flowers to cheer her. Visiting twice a year. Calling several times a week. Somehow it's much easier to know that she will never know anything about me, and by knowing this, I can give up vying for emotional intimacy.
But now that she is helpless, bonkers, zoned out on pain meds, deemed incompetent, I am now the best thing in the world because I am the only thing in her world. I am the life raft, and she's drowning.
This is not a pity-me diatribe from a 49-year-old slighted daughter. It's just that now that my sense of duty has to come into full swing, I sure wish that a loving bond or at least some good memories came along with the package.
So on Monday, the day after tomorrow, I'll be winging my way home to find a home for my mother.
I have been in Wisconsin now for almost two weeks, getting rid of her things, closing up her apartment, sorting through the mountains of unpaid bills and paperwork. I've seen her deemed incompetent and put in a skilled nursing home, where she is receiving rehab.
I am stressed, as this whole job is placed in my lap (though my dear son was here for a week to help). My brother in Milwaukee, just 25 miles away, wants nothing to do with her. He hasn't called or visited during these past two weeks. I also feel financially burdened, as I had to fly with Aaron out here on a moment's notice. Also, when she moves to Long Beach, I'm stuck there once again. My plan was to leave So Cal in May and begin anew. Now that doesn't seem to be in the cards. I feel trapped.
I've got to find a way to make this mountainous task a bit easier. I have no pleasant memories to reflect back upon, and her current state does little but produce pity, impatience, stress, a sense of being manipulated and used, and, yes, anger in me. I keep all this under wraps, of course, under the polite smile of duty. I am duty-bound to care for my mother, but, oh, how I wish my care for her were rather based on the love I have known for my son and he for me. But the opportunity for that was lost long ago.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Caroling in Carroll Park
After much cajoling, I succeeded in getting a caroling party assembled--the dear son, his friends Tyler and Bryant, and myself. After a few photos around our Christmas tree--a sprig of evergreen rising triumphantly from a vase--and a little bit of alcohol at home, we headed out to spread good cheer.
Our first stop was Leonard's apartment. His Christmas lights were on, but he didn't answer the door. Next up, was the mechanic in the apartment below the laundry room. He offered us ten bucks before we even opened our mouths, but I refused. But when we sang our brandy verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," he poured Malibu coconut-flavored rum into our mugs.
We proceeded down Molino Avenue to the homes of strangers. Some offered fudge and cookies. Others gave us beers. Two cute girls in a lovely craftsman-style house brought out a bottle of red wine that one of them had recently purchased in Spain. A friend of a friend in an apartment that looked like it had been the site of many a holiday party gave us vodka. Another family served Jim Beam.
A middle-aged couple and their friend joined us in "Silent Night" and even humored me by listening to my solo of "Stille Nacht." Then they gave us hugs! Yes, hugs between strangers! Does it get any better!
At Portfolio, the home of snobby baristas, we sang to anyone who would raise his gaze from his laptop screen. The ennui of the bored youth behind the counter persisted, but one patron said into her cell phone, "I'll have to call you back. There are carolers here." She hung up and joined in for a few verses. Outside we met with a merrier crowd. One young gal, who gave us all hugs when I told her of the hugs we had previously received, said of my photo-taking: "I know that will end up on a blog somewhere." And indeed it has.
One boy, maybe four years old, was our biggest fan. He stood by the door, dumbstruck, awestruck, bright-eyed, smiling. Decades from now, he will remember that night like a dim vision of Santa on the rooftop or sleigh bells as he drifts off to sleep.
As we walked and encountered pedestrians, we circled them and filled them with good cheer as well.
And lest I forget the couple with the Beemer parked out front. The woman offered us whiskey before we even asked, and when her husband/boyfriend said they had been at a party the night before and no one knew the words to an old carol, I immediately jumped in with "Here We Go A-Wassailing." That had been the song he had wanted to sing! And so the six of us sang, "We are not daily beggars/That beg from door to door/But we are neighbors' children/Who you have seen before/Love and joy come to you/And to you your wassail too/May God bless you and send you a happy new year/May God send you a happy new year."
Definitely a Christmas baby was conceived at that house last night. I could just image the woman saying, "Oh, honey, wasn't that magical!" And so would begin some magic of their own.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Anyone for Caroling?
Every December I begin my let's-go-caroling chorus. Every year I am met with nay-sayers and pooh-hoohers. What's wrong with the world? Caroling is one of the most fun things around. It's just that no one wants to give it a try.
Decades ago, years before Aaron was born, back in the days when I was a young, married woman, I cajoled my brother, Tim, and then-husband, Rod, to go caroling. Rod and I were living in Chicago at the time, and we were visiting our families in Wisconsin. Sure, it was colder than a witch's tit, but I suggested that we bring mugs and sing for brandy. This warmed the men up to the idea--somewhat.
So, off we went, knocking on the doors of strangers and singing to them--the standard fare of "Rudolph," "Come All Ye Faithful," and "The First Noel." At one house, after we had sung "Silent Night" in English, I cleared a space for myself in a dramatic flourish and gave a solo performance of "Stille Nacht"--"Silent Night" in German. Young parents and their children were aglow and gave us cookies. Older shut-ins were transported back to their childhoods, when people actually did what we were doing. And, sure enough, some people brought out the brandy.
Now we didn't ask for booze at every house. We didn't hit up the elderly or those with young kids. But at most houses, especially if the residents seemed playful, we'd close with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Instead of singing about the figgy pudding, I made up the verse:
"Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
And a shot and a beer.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some,
So bring it right here."
We laughed and held out our mugs while we swayed to and fro to the music.
One couple brought out Chivis Regal Scotch Whiskey. The good stuff. And an unopened bottle. They had received it as a gift that year and told us that they didn't drink. They poured it as if it were coffee.
Twenty years later, on Christmas Eve 2004, I made a surprise visit to Wisconsin. Now long since divorced and mother to an 18-year-old, I once again cajoled my brother and my son, too, to join me in mirth. Once again, it was colder than hell, but once again, we brought our mugs.
We met with a few sourpusses, I must admit. One girl who sat watching TV as we sang and never bothered to answer the door, though she occasionally looked at us as if we were on another channel. And, yes, there was the Jewish woman, who we hadn't known was Jewish until her neighbor informed us. She had listened patiently, but when I did my solo number, she screamed, "How dare you sing to me in German!" and slammed the door in our faces. Ouch!
Then I had a flashback to the Chivis Regal couple. I was convinced the house on the corner was theirs. (I have an uncanny memory for such details of life.) We gave it a try, and yessiree bob, same couple and same bottle of Chivis Regal. That's right--they had opened it for us 20 years ago and besides what had evaporated over those two decades, not a drop was missing. They invited us in to see their tree, told of how they had met in the Old Country, poured us stiff drinks and then refilled our mugs.
Even my cynical brother admitted that this was magical.
Two years ago, I organized a caroling party and we canvased the Rose Park neighborhood. Though I had invited several of my students, only Hector Perez shared my enthusiasm. In fact, he might have been even more nuts about caroling than me, if one can believe that. He kept saying, "Oh, Miss Nye, let's keep going." And so we did, "bringing joy to so many people," as Hector said in an effervescent moment of pure holiday bliss.
And so, this year, once again, I am looking forward to spreading joy. I told my son that he has to round up his friends. That this will be fun. And you can be damn sure it will be.
Decades ago, years before Aaron was born, back in the days when I was a young, married woman, I cajoled my brother, Tim, and then-husband, Rod, to go caroling. Rod and I were living in Chicago at the time, and we were visiting our families in Wisconsin. Sure, it was colder than a witch's tit, but I suggested that we bring mugs and sing for brandy. This warmed the men up to the idea--somewhat.
So, off we went, knocking on the doors of strangers and singing to them--the standard fare of "Rudolph," "Come All Ye Faithful," and "The First Noel." At one house, after we had sung "Silent Night" in English, I cleared a space for myself in a dramatic flourish and gave a solo performance of "Stille Nacht"--"Silent Night" in German. Young parents and their children were aglow and gave us cookies. Older shut-ins were transported back to their childhoods, when people actually did what we were doing. And, sure enough, some people brought out the brandy.
Now we didn't ask for booze at every house. We didn't hit up the elderly or those with young kids. But at most houses, especially if the residents seemed playful, we'd close with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Instead of singing about the figgy pudding, I made up the verse:
"Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
And a shot and a beer.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some,
So bring it right here."
We laughed and held out our mugs while we swayed to and fro to the music.
One couple brought out Chivis Regal Scotch Whiskey. The good stuff. And an unopened bottle. They had received it as a gift that year and told us that they didn't drink. They poured it as if it were coffee.
Twenty years later, on Christmas Eve 2004, I made a surprise visit to Wisconsin. Now long since divorced and mother to an 18-year-old, I once again cajoled my brother and my son, too, to join me in mirth. Once again, it was colder than hell, but once again, we brought our mugs.
We met with a few sourpusses, I must admit. One girl who sat watching TV as we sang and never bothered to answer the door, though she occasionally looked at us as if we were on another channel. And, yes, there was the Jewish woman, who we hadn't known was Jewish until her neighbor informed us. She had listened patiently, but when I did my solo number, she screamed, "How dare you sing to me in German!" and slammed the door in our faces. Ouch!
Then I had a flashback to the Chivis Regal couple. I was convinced the house on the corner was theirs. (I have an uncanny memory for such details of life.) We gave it a try, and yessiree bob, same couple and same bottle of Chivis Regal. That's right--they had opened it for us 20 years ago and besides what had evaporated over those two decades, not a drop was missing. They invited us in to see their tree, told of how they had met in the Old Country, poured us stiff drinks and then refilled our mugs.
Even my cynical brother admitted that this was magical.
Two years ago, I organized a caroling party and we canvased the Rose Park neighborhood. Though I had invited several of my students, only Hector Perez shared my enthusiasm. In fact, he might have been even more nuts about caroling than me, if one can believe that. He kept saying, "Oh, Miss Nye, let's keep going." And so we did, "bringing joy to so many people," as Hector said in an effervescent moment of pure holiday bliss.
And so, this year, once again, I am looking forward to spreading joy. I told my son that he has to round up his friends. That this will be fun. And you can be damn sure it will be.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
We All Have so Much
Though I live simply, I still have much more than most of the people in the world do. I have a roof over my head, a bed, food, clothes, a hot shower every morning--hooray for hot showers!--and a whole bunch of earrings.
I'm urging everyone to take stock of his or her blessings and then to rethink holiday shopping this year. Do you really need to buy another thing for friends and family members who already have so many things? Why not have a tree planted in their name instead? Or give them a pretty card that shows that you donated money to their favorite charity? Or that you sponsored a homeless family or a patient at a mental-health facility?
Holiday shopping is way out of hand. Let's all do our part to reign it in and remember that others have so little while we often have way too much.
I'm urging everyone to take stock of his or her blessings and then to rethink holiday shopping this year. Do you really need to buy another thing for friends and family members who already have so many things? Why not have a tree planted in their name instead? Or give them a pretty card that shows that you donated money to their favorite charity? Or that you sponsored a homeless family or a patient at a mental-health facility?
Holiday shopping is way out of hand. Let's all do our part to reign it in and remember that others have so little while we often have way too much.
Master Card Takes an Extra $5,000 of my Money
Let me state from the get-go that I am a rare American: I have never paid a dime in credit-card interest. I pay my bills in full and on time. There have even been years when I overpaid my Visa bill when times were good.
But, of course, that kind of customer isn't what the credit card companies want. They want people who are in debt, people they can charge Mafia-style interest. For me, I would rather live simply, buy what I need from yard sales and thrift stores, and not have debt stress.
I charge most of my expenses in order to reap the frequent-flyer miles, one or two miles for every dollar spent, you know the story. This past month I had more outlays than usual, what with an airline ticket to Wisconsin, a one-way ticket from Portland for my son, hundreds of dollars in medical and dental bills, and a bunch of business expenses.
Nevertheless, when I started getting statements from my bank that I was being charged for overdrafts, I knew something was amiss. Turns out, Capital One electronically processed a check I had sent for $1,871.11--payment in full--for $6,871.11, five grand more than I owed.
I called Capital One and got a man in India who had no authority to do anything except say he was sorry. Finally, I got his American supervisor who chastised me for not writing my numbers clearly, something I disputed. She pulled up the check and said there was a tiny pen mark at the top of the one that might have confused the data-entry person. I don't think that a tiny mark at the top of the one would have looked anywhere near a "6."
I also noted that the reason people write checks is so there is something to check the numerals against--the next line on which the check-writer fills in the amount in words. I had to repeat that several times before she understood. Then she told me that the data-entry people have to process checks so fast that they can't stop to make sure the amount is correct!
Credit-card companies are making more money than God, I told her. Why can't they pay to have the job done right? I'm sure they would still be making more money than God if they doubled their number of data-entry people.
She then said that Capital One doesn't process the checks in-house but farms them out--no doubt to India--so it has no control over how the checks are processed. I said, "You could exercise control if you wanted to. It's like if I wanted a swimming pool built in my backyard, and I contract with a firm to build the pool. The contractor sends out two guys to do the work, but I tell him I want four guys to do the job and I'll pay extra. Do you think he'd tell me, 'No, I can't do that'? You, too, could ask for more people to do the work--and to do the work right." This point went way over her head.
Finally, after an hour on the phone for something that was not my mistake, the supervisor said she would have the $5,000 wired back to my account. That was Friday morning. Yesterday afternoon I called my credit union. No transfer has yet been made. And the overdraft fees continue to arrive--six at last count.
But, of course, that kind of customer isn't what the credit card companies want. They want people who are in debt, people they can charge Mafia-style interest. For me, I would rather live simply, buy what I need from yard sales and thrift stores, and not have debt stress.
I charge most of my expenses in order to reap the frequent-flyer miles, one or two miles for every dollar spent, you know the story. This past month I had more outlays than usual, what with an airline ticket to Wisconsin, a one-way ticket from Portland for my son, hundreds of dollars in medical and dental bills, and a bunch of business expenses.
Nevertheless, when I started getting statements from my bank that I was being charged for overdrafts, I knew something was amiss. Turns out, Capital One electronically processed a check I had sent for $1,871.11--payment in full--for $6,871.11, five grand more than I owed.
I called Capital One and got a man in India who had no authority to do anything except say he was sorry. Finally, I got his American supervisor who chastised me for not writing my numbers clearly, something I disputed. She pulled up the check and said there was a tiny pen mark at the top of the one that might have confused the data-entry person. I don't think that a tiny mark at the top of the one would have looked anywhere near a "6."
I also noted that the reason people write checks is so there is something to check the numerals against--the next line on which the check-writer fills in the amount in words. I had to repeat that several times before she understood. Then she told me that the data-entry people have to process checks so fast that they can't stop to make sure the amount is correct!
Credit-card companies are making more money than God, I told her. Why can't they pay to have the job done right? I'm sure they would still be making more money than God if they doubled their number of data-entry people.
She then said that Capital One doesn't process the checks in-house but farms them out--no doubt to India--so it has no control over how the checks are processed. I said, "You could exercise control if you wanted to. It's like if I wanted a swimming pool built in my backyard, and I contract with a firm to build the pool. The contractor sends out two guys to do the work, but I tell him I want four guys to do the job and I'll pay extra. Do you think he'd tell me, 'No, I can't do that'? You, too, could ask for more people to do the work--and to do the work right." This point went way over her head.
Finally, after an hour on the phone for something that was not my mistake, the supervisor said she would have the $5,000 wired back to my account. That was Friday morning. Yesterday afternoon I called my credit union. No transfer has yet been made. And the overdraft fees continue to arrive--six at last count.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Mature Gals with Great Attitudes
During the past few days I have spent time with two women in their 70s--Bev and Carol. The first is a long-time friend, the other a massage client. Both are amazing gals and both look great. Bev recently spurned a 50-year-old lover, a man who is a quarter of a century her junior. Carol looks like she could be in her mid-50s. So what's their secret?
The answer is that both Bev and Carol don't let things bother them, and they don't dwell on the past. I am convinced that this attitude keeps them young.
Bev has been asked at various times in her life, "Aren't you insulted by what that person said to you? Aren't you hurt by what that person did to you?" She brushes such comments off as if they were specks of dust and says, "Maybe I should be upset, but I'm not. I don't have time to be upset. I've got too many other things to do."
And indeed she does. She's juggling a few guys, besides still working as a massage therapist. She lifts weights and takes long walks at the Newport Back Bay. She's active in a few churches that run the gamut from evangelical Christian to Science of Mind. She's also fascinated with Judaism and takes classes in alternative healing. Whew!
Carol, too, is very present-oriented. She is constantly going--golfing a few times a week, walking several miles with her friends each day, volunteering, attending concerts and plays, spending time with her boyfriend. She outright admits, "I have no interest in the past."
I have a great admiration for both these ladies, who have found the secret of youth--a positive, present-oriented attitude that allows no time for wallowing over past injustices.
Whenever I find myself rehashing what someone said or did or what I said or did or didn't say or didn't do, I need to give myself a good, hard slap and say, "I don't have time for this! It'll only give me more wrinkles!"
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Camper Shell Brings Sense of Security
A few days ago, my mother asked me what I am going to do when I leave Cal State in May. I had been going along, fairly satisfied with the New Agey thought that something miraculous would occur between now and spring, and I would be shown a clear, straight path to happiness, love, and abundance. But moms have a way of throwing a wrench into such thinking.
Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?
I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.
I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?
So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.
Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.
Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.
It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.
I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.
Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?
I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.
I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?
So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.
Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.
Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.
It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.
I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
A Lesson Learned Again and Again
I have hurt someone. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But I have.
I knew this was coming from the very beginning. I knew that at some point I would be the one who would do the hurting, since I am the one who is interested in friendship and the man I have hurt is interested in much more.
Last night I didn't sleep at all, disturbed by how I had hurt him. I scrutinized my thoughts and realized that they fit a common pattern for me. Whenever I have some sort of hurtful or unfortunate social interaction, I think that perhaps I am not well-suited for interactions with people, interactions of any depth, that is. Instead I should confine myself to compliments about someone's cooking or outfit and light conversation about the weather. I always seem to get in trouble if I venture any further.
I recall the image that came to me once in a dream or perhaps it was in a waking vision. It was the 1940s or maybe the '30s. I was an attractive woman who lived alone in a cute, little apartment. I said hello to everyone I encountered, the green grocer and the newspaper boy, the old woman beating her rugs on the fire escape, the good-looking man who would tip his hat when I passed by. I was pleasant with my coworkers. I always had a genuine smile on my face for anyone I might see, and that smile was there even when I was alone. I went on excursions about town, and I cooked candlelit meals for myself. I enjoyed reading in my sunlit parlor and walking my dog or teaching my parrot to talk. I seemed very happy, yet I had no lover, no friends, no contact with family. I was just floating through this world, content to be alive and not disturbing anyone. This image returned to me today. Was this me in another life? Or is this my true nature--to be alone?
I think, too, of what my enlightened-being-of-the-north-woods friend asked me in the summer of 2006 when I was visiting her in northeastern Washington: "Why do I have to interact with people?" I gave her answers such as "You can only learn certain things through interacting with people" and "You are a person, so interacting with other people will help you learn about yourself." To this she replied, "What if I don't want to learn those things?" For that I had no answer.
And yet I would love to have deep friendship and deep intimacy, but perhaps I just don't understand the ways of the world. I missed school the day that relationships, friendship, and making one's way in the world were discussed. I've just got to muddle through without the benefit of notes.
This disconnect was so strongly brought to my attention one night decades ago. I was driving on Pacific Coast Highway and encountered a police officer who was signalling with his flashlight. I thought he meant that I should continue to drive forward, whereas instead he meant for me to stop. As I passed him, he yelled and slammed his flashlight into the side of my vehicle. I was shocked. Here I thought I was doing what was asked, but instead I was doing just the opposite. How often this has happened--I am traveling along, thinking I am acting in accordance with society's norms, only to be wacked into awareness of how far afield I am.
In the current situation, I was at fault for how the hurt unfolded. I made mistakes that I will not make again. But the larger mistake of thinking that a man could be my friend is one that I have often made in the past and I suspect, unless I live as the woman in my vision, I will make again.
I knew this was coming from the very beginning. I knew that at some point I would be the one who would do the hurting, since I am the one who is interested in friendship and the man I have hurt is interested in much more.
Last night I didn't sleep at all, disturbed by how I had hurt him. I scrutinized my thoughts and realized that they fit a common pattern for me. Whenever I have some sort of hurtful or unfortunate social interaction, I think that perhaps I am not well-suited for interactions with people, interactions of any depth, that is. Instead I should confine myself to compliments about someone's cooking or outfit and light conversation about the weather. I always seem to get in trouble if I venture any further.
I recall the image that came to me once in a dream or perhaps it was in a waking vision. It was the 1940s or maybe the '30s. I was an attractive woman who lived alone in a cute, little apartment. I said hello to everyone I encountered, the green grocer and the newspaper boy, the old woman beating her rugs on the fire escape, the good-looking man who would tip his hat when I passed by. I was pleasant with my coworkers. I always had a genuine smile on my face for anyone I might see, and that smile was there even when I was alone. I went on excursions about town, and I cooked candlelit meals for myself. I enjoyed reading in my sunlit parlor and walking my dog or teaching my parrot to talk. I seemed very happy, yet I had no lover, no friends, no contact with family. I was just floating through this world, content to be alive and not disturbing anyone. This image returned to me today. Was this me in another life? Or is this my true nature--to be alone?
I think, too, of what my enlightened-being-of-the-north-woods friend asked me in the summer of 2006 when I was visiting her in northeastern Washington: "Why do I have to interact with people?" I gave her answers such as "You can only learn certain things through interacting with people" and "You are a person, so interacting with other people will help you learn about yourself." To this she replied, "What if I don't want to learn those things?" For that I had no answer.
And yet I would love to have deep friendship and deep intimacy, but perhaps I just don't understand the ways of the world. I missed school the day that relationships, friendship, and making one's way in the world were discussed. I've just got to muddle through without the benefit of notes.
This disconnect was so strongly brought to my attention one night decades ago. I was driving on Pacific Coast Highway and encountered a police officer who was signalling with his flashlight. I thought he meant that I should continue to drive forward, whereas instead he meant for me to stop. As I passed him, he yelled and slammed his flashlight into the side of my vehicle. I was shocked. Here I thought I was doing what was asked, but instead I was doing just the opposite. How often this has happened--I am traveling along, thinking I am acting in accordance with society's norms, only to be wacked into awareness of how far afield I am.
In the current situation, I was at fault for how the hurt unfolded. I made mistakes that I will not make again. But the larger mistake of thinking that a man could be my friend is one that I have often made in the past and I suspect, unless I live as the woman in my vision, I will make again.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Never Knew Anyone Read my Blogs
My friends Heather and Alexi read my blogs, but I never knew anyone else did. Now it seems that someone has read a post about an old friend who has romantic feelings for me and sent it to him. He is insulted, and I have removed the post. I'm sorry and from now on, I won't write about anyone I know or I will dramatically change the particulars so that it is not clear about who I am speaking.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Something in my Pants
When I first started wearing the insulin pump, I put it in the black, pseudo-leather case the rep had given me and attached it to my belt or the top of my skirt. The tubing protruded from the case, and I attempted to tuck it beneath my clothes as much as possible.
I did this for a week or two until I found out about the baby-sock method. I now slip the pump sans case into a baby sock and tuck it into my undies. This works especially well when I'm wearing a skirt or a dress, as my panty hose keeps the pump in place.
When I'm wearing jeans or dress slacks, however, it's a different matter. The pump starts out at my side, placed against my hip bone. After a while--especially if I'm walking quite a bit--it slips down my panties and becomes lodged in my crotch.
Sometimes I attempt to get it back in place, and I must look like a guy grabbing at his thing. In fact, with the insulin pump riding next to my hootch, I wonder if it looks like I've got something extra in my pants.
I did this for a week or two until I found out about the baby-sock method. I now slip the pump sans case into a baby sock and tuck it into my undies. This works especially well when I'm wearing a skirt or a dress, as my panty hose keeps the pump in place.
When I'm wearing jeans or dress slacks, however, it's a different matter. The pump starts out at my side, placed against my hip bone. After a while--especially if I'm walking quite a bit--it slips down my panties and becomes lodged in my crotch.
Sometimes I attempt to get it back in place, and I must look like a guy grabbing at his thing. In fact, with the insulin pump riding next to my hootch, I wonder if it looks like I've got something extra in my pants.
Exercise as a Means of Giving Thanks
I am so incredibly grateful for my new lease on life. Six weeks ago, I was dying, struggling to walk a few feet, exhausted after making my bed, dreading staircases. Then suddenly--truly overnight--I had a complete turnaround. I can now walk miles with no problem and bound up stairs. I feel light and free and 20 years younger. A miracle if ever there has been one.
Because of my impaired physical condition, I had been unable to exercise much during the past few years. Sure, every once in a while, I would be able to take a walk in the woods, but eventually I would get chest pain and have to slow down. In short, I had sharply curtailed my exercise because I simply was not capable of accomplishing much of anything.
That has changed. Now I am so happy that I am in the land of the living again. I can walk! I can do household chores! I can climb stairs! Yippee! And as my way of giving thanks for being able to exercise, I AM exercising.
This morning I walked to the beach, then snaked around the quiet streets in the Rose Park district. Probably 2 1/2 miles all told.
What a fantastic feeling! I must have had a smile on my face the whole way because everyone I encountered smiled back. I was simply smiling to the world, and the world responded.
As I walked, I chanted, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." A million times thank you.
Of course, exercise will also help me maintain this renewed health. It's all working so perfectly. I am so happy and so thankful.
As I said to my son, "The prayers you say for me every night finally reached critical mass and BAM! A miracle!" Whether it was Aaron or something I did or the concern of friends or the intercession of a passing angel, who knows. But now it is up to me to sustain the miracle through exercise and smiles.
Because of my impaired physical condition, I had been unable to exercise much during the past few years. Sure, every once in a while, I would be able to take a walk in the woods, but eventually I would get chest pain and have to slow down. In short, I had sharply curtailed my exercise because I simply was not capable of accomplishing much of anything.
That has changed. Now I am so happy that I am in the land of the living again. I can walk! I can do household chores! I can climb stairs! Yippee! And as my way of giving thanks for being able to exercise, I AM exercising.
This morning I walked to the beach, then snaked around the quiet streets in the Rose Park district. Probably 2 1/2 miles all told.
What a fantastic feeling! I must have had a smile on my face the whole way because everyone I encountered smiled back. I was simply smiling to the world, and the world responded.
As I walked, I chanted, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." A million times thank you.
Of course, exercise will also help me maintain this renewed health. It's all working so perfectly. I am so happy and so thankful.
As I said to my son, "The prayers you say for me every night finally reached critical mass and BAM! A miracle!" Whether it was Aaron or something I did or the concern of friends or the intercession of a passing angel, who knows. But now it is up to me to sustain the miracle through exercise and smiles.
Friday, November 23, 2007
My Mom is Introduced to the Internet, Though She Really Wanted the Oracle at Delphi
My mother is 86 years old. She grew up on a Minnesota farm and remembers when her house was wired for electricity.
For years I've been encouraging her to learn some computer skills. I have told her how much fun she could have on the Internet. She could chat with other people who have attended one-room schoolhouses. She could track down old friends. She could read the news from papers around the world. She could improve her German.
But her resistance to learning about the Web, indeed learning anything new--card games, a handicraft, her fellow seniors' names--is frustrating, so I mostly just let her be.
A few days ago, however, she and I were looking for some place to eat on Thanksgiving Eve. The only place that was open in downtown Racine, Wisc., was a coffeehouse. There we had sandwiches, and there I introduced her to the Web.
As we ate, I enticed her with: "Think of a question, Mom, any question, and I'll show you how we can find the answer on the Internet." This confused her. "A question?" she asked. (Well, I guess that was a question, right? Hmmm...) "Yes, Mom, like how many gallons of water leave the mouth of the Nile River every minute or how many one-room schoolhouses are left in America. What are you interested in finding out?"
After much prodding on my part and much confusion on hers, she finally hit upon: "Why did my brother die so young?"
Wow, of all the questions in the world, this was on her mind. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it has to be something we can actually find on the Internet."
She tried again: "Where's my grandson at this moment?" And: "What are you and I going to do tomorrow?"
Obviously, she thought she was standing before the Oracle at Delphi. "Mom, computers aren't that sophisticated yet," I said. "They can't answer such personal questions like that. It has to be something concrete and public."
She finally hit upon "How far is it to the moon?" Bingo!
After that, she got really excited. We looked up her grandson, Aaron Ziolkowski, and found a review he had written for Music Connection magazine posted on the band's Web site and a letter to the editor at Thrasher, a skateboarding magazine.
I let her type in one of her queries, but for every letter, she typed a dozen. "You'd have to develop a much lighter touch, Mom. You don't have to bang it like you do a typewriter."
This was a freak experience, to be sure. My mother has already gone back to her shell, uninterested in doing anything except take her pills and shuffle about with her walker, saying she's lived too long and making herself as helpless and weak as possible.
But for a few moments in a coffeehouse in Racine, Wisc., on Thanksgiving Eve 2007, her face was lit up to a brand-new, wired world.
For years I've been encouraging her to learn some computer skills. I have told her how much fun she could have on the Internet. She could chat with other people who have attended one-room schoolhouses. She could track down old friends. She could read the news from papers around the world. She could improve her German.
But her resistance to learning about the Web, indeed learning anything new--card games, a handicraft, her fellow seniors' names--is frustrating, so I mostly just let her be.
A few days ago, however, she and I were looking for some place to eat on Thanksgiving Eve. The only place that was open in downtown Racine, Wisc., was a coffeehouse. There we had sandwiches, and there I introduced her to the Web.
As we ate, I enticed her with: "Think of a question, Mom, any question, and I'll show you how we can find the answer on the Internet." This confused her. "A question?" she asked. (Well, I guess that was a question, right? Hmmm...) "Yes, Mom, like how many gallons of water leave the mouth of the Nile River every minute or how many one-room schoolhouses are left in America. What are you interested in finding out?"
After much prodding on my part and much confusion on hers, she finally hit upon: "Why did my brother die so young?"
Wow, of all the questions in the world, this was on her mind. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it has to be something we can actually find on the Internet."
She tried again: "Where's my grandson at this moment?" And: "What are you and I going to do tomorrow?"
Obviously, she thought she was standing before the Oracle at Delphi. "Mom, computers aren't that sophisticated yet," I said. "They can't answer such personal questions like that. It has to be something concrete and public."
She finally hit upon "How far is it to the moon?" Bingo!
After that, she got really excited. We looked up her grandson, Aaron Ziolkowski, and found a review he had written for Music Connection magazine posted on the band's Web site and a letter to the editor at Thrasher, a skateboarding magazine.
I let her type in one of her queries, but for every letter, she typed a dozen. "You'd have to develop a much lighter touch, Mom. You don't have to bang it like you do a typewriter."
This was a freak experience, to be sure. My mother has already gone back to her shell, uninterested in doing anything except take her pills and shuffle about with her walker, saying she's lived too long and making herself as helpless and weak as possible.
But for a few moments in a coffeehouse in Racine, Wisc., on Thanksgiving Eve 2007, her face was lit up to a brand-new, wired world.
Messages That Inform my Waking Life
Almost every night before dropping into sleep, I say aloud, "Dear seraphim, protect me from all interference from the astral plane and guide me directly to realms of light and love of ascended masters and angelic beings, where I will receive messages that I will recall upon waking and which will inform and guide my waking life."
Usually this has worked very well, but since last December, when I had my uterus scraped (a uterine oblation) because I was bleeding up to a pint a day, my psychic ability has diminished to nil. I hadn't made the connection before between the ground of my sexual being and psychic experiences. For example, I have not seen beings of light in my living room or out and about in the world for almost a year now, whereas I used to see them several times a day.
An intuitive healer recommended that I try nutripuncture, which is a blend of acupuncture theory and homeopathy. He prescribed yin-yang, uterine, and thyroid combinations for me, and I've been taking them for the past two weeks.
Immediately, my dreams became much more vibrant and real. And I am beginning to remember the messages upon waking, like the one this morning: "Things that you need to shout to the world, even though the world may not be listening."
I have also begun to see energy fields again, not yet full-blown beings of light, angels, some might call them, but at least energy fields. These vibrations are very clearly discernible against the backdrop of objects and persons in the "normal world."
As I have done in the past to make them glow more brightly, I send them messages of love as I look upon them, and they will certainly respond in kind by sending out stronger vibrations and enveloping me with love of their own--in time, all in good time. Much like when you smile at someone and he smiles back at you, increasing the love vibration in both of you and in the world as a whole. Why don't you give this a whirl?
Usually this has worked very well, but since last December, when I had my uterus scraped (a uterine oblation) because I was bleeding up to a pint a day, my psychic ability has diminished to nil. I hadn't made the connection before between the ground of my sexual being and psychic experiences. For example, I have not seen beings of light in my living room or out and about in the world for almost a year now, whereas I used to see them several times a day.
An intuitive healer recommended that I try nutripuncture, which is a blend of acupuncture theory and homeopathy. He prescribed yin-yang, uterine, and thyroid combinations for me, and I've been taking them for the past two weeks.
Immediately, my dreams became much more vibrant and real. And I am beginning to remember the messages upon waking, like the one this morning: "Things that you need to shout to the world, even though the world may not be listening."
I have also begun to see energy fields again, not yet full-blown beings of light, angels, some might call them, but at least energy fields. These vibrations are very clearly discernible against the backdrop of objects and persons in the "normal world."
As I have done in the past to make them glow more brightly, I send them messages of love as I look upon them, and they will certainly respond in kind by sending out stronger vibrations and enveloping me with love of their own--in time, all in good time. Much like when you smile at someone and he smiles back at you, increasing the love vibration in both of you and in the world as a whole. Why don't you give this a whirl?
Friday, November 02, 2007
Roger, a Most Remarkable Man
Roger has been my friend since Thanksgiving weekend 1990 when I met him in the ghost town he was caretaking. Recently separated from my husband, I had long wanted to explore Death Valley and the surrounding desert, and as I had no invitations for turkey dinner, I felt this was the time to do it. I spent four or five days exploring some lonesome spots, Ballarat being one of them.
Triple A marks populated towns in the same way it marks ghost towns on its maps. One never knows for certain whether one will find live souls or a few abandoned buildings when one ventures into a town marked on a Triple A map. I have often wondered if its cartographers have not revised remote sections of the California map in many decades, simply transferring the names of now-deceased burgs onto current maps.
Whatever the reason, I ended up in Ballarat on the Friday following Thanksgiving, 1990. I had long looked at my Triple A map and wondered what went on in Ballarat. This was my opportunity to find out.
On that November afternoon, I met Roger, a very quiet man who appreciated silence, so much so that he would enter abandoned mines to attain absolute stillness. He once told me that even in such an environment, someone who is used to the constant din of modern life will still hear echoes of urban noise within his head, like the sound of the ocean caught inside a conch shell. With time, though, that inner chatter dies and true silence emerges.
Roger and I exchanged addresses, and over the years, we have exchanged hundreds of letters. One of the most beautiful gifts anyone ever gave me arrived from Roger in the spring of 1991. Through a soft rain, I had bicycled home from work to find Roger's package at my doorstep. In the gentle, golden light of early evening, I opened the box to find it filled with desert plants. The smells of the sage and juniper filled the room. I was instantly transported to the desert after a rainstorm.
In the 17 years I've known Roger, he has found two wives, both of whom started out as pen pals. Roger and I, however, have maybe made physical contact only once or twice. A pat on his back. A touch to his shoulder. That sort of thing, but nothing more.
Like many men in rural areas, Roger is a jack of all trades. All about the extremely strange town of Randsburg--which bills itself as a living ghost town--are the fruits of Roger's labor. Hand-crafted weather vanes. Signs painted for the general store and for antique shops on Main Street. Tile work here. Concrete work there.
He once had a tiny house he purchased for $5,000 in Red Mountain, but his "commute" to Randsburg--a three-mile walk over the mountain to his workshop in town--became too difficult. He told me he wanted to give the house away to a deserving artist, but instead someone approached him about buying it. Never overly concerned with money, Roger probably gave the buyer a deal. He now lives in a room off his workshop, fitted with a galvanized container that doubles as a sink and a bath tub. Here is another testament to Roger's resourcefulness and simplicity, traits I greatly admire about him.
Once upon a time, Roger had two pickups from the '50s, but he sold both when he moved into town. He now drives a tractor from the year of his birth--1953--once a week to the Randsburg General Store to pick up groceries. As the store is a little more than a block away, the tractor's seven-gallon gas tank only has to be filled once a year. Aaron and I drove to Randsburg last weekend to see if Roger was OK, since I had not heard from him for many months. During that visit, Roger fired up the tractor and let Aaron and me ride it around his back lot. "This was one week's worth of gas, huh, Roger," I teased.
In all the years I've known Roger, I have only visited him six times. Otherwise, we have known each other through letters alone, as Roger doesn't have a phone or Internet service.
Though I had last seen Roger about four years ago, when Aaron and I approached him outside the building he's remodeling and living in, he was not surprised. His expression didn't change. He spoke in his slow, deliberate way, unphased. I commented on how long it had been since our last encounter, and he said, "And maybe it was only a day ago." I told him I was happy to see that he was still "on this planet." He said he was glad I was still here too.
Roger's limp is worse than I remember. I once asked him how the limp had developed, and he matter-of-factly informed me that someone had shot him in the leg, but that he deserved it and so had not had the bullet removed. As Aaron commented when I told him this, "An old-fashioned sense of justice." Indeed.
I care about my friend, and I wish he would take care of his leg. But I also admire this about him--his dedication to his principles, how he lives his life in accordance with his philosophy. He is a man of integrity. He lives by his own code, and I respect that, even though his code may not be mine.
Roger, a most remarkable man.
A Small Miracle
For almost eight years, I have been unable to sleep on my side. Prior to this, I did nothing but sleep on my side. But as I developed cardiac problems, I had to retrain my body, putting a pillow beneath my knees so that I wouldn't roll over during the night.
Ever since then, almost every night, I have attempted to sleep as I prefer to sleep--one pillow beneath my head, one sandwiched between my knees and thighs, and a third held to my chest, while sleeping on my side. And every night for the past eight years, I have only been able to hold this position for a minute or so before the pressure built up on my heart and I had to go back to the prone position. The weight of my body would press on my heart, no matter if I tried the left or the right side, making breathing uncomfortable.
These past few nights, however, I have tried the preferred position and have been amazed that, after thousands of attempts in the past years, I am now able to side-sleep as I did when I was a child and a young adult and a 30ish adult before my heart started acting up. I feel no discomfort; my heart is not constricted.
I am so grateful for this shift, so grateful that I have said "thank you" by cutting back on my heart meds. A healing is in progress, and I wish to facilitate it by offering a tangible sign of my trust in this miraculous transformation.
Ever since then, almost every night, I have attempted to sleep as I prefer to sleep--one pillow beneath my head, one sandwiched between my knees and thighs, and a third held to my chest, while sleeping on my side. And every night for the past eight years, I have only been able to hold this position for a minute or so before the pressure built up on my heart and I had to go back to the prone position. The weight of my body would press on my heart, no matter if I tried the left or the right side, making breathing uncomfortable.
These past few nights, however, I have tried the preferred position and have been amazed that, after thousands of attempts in the past years, I am now able to side-sleep as I did when I was a child and a young adult and a 30ish adult before my heart started acting up. I feel no discomfort; my heart is not constricted.
I am so grateful for this shift, so grateful that I have said "thank you" by cutting back on my heart meds. A healing is in progress, and I wish to facilitate it by offering a tangible sign of my trust in this miraculous transformation.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Feeling So Much Better!
Only nine days ago, I was on death's door--exhausted after the least exertion, water on my lungs, feeling like I was 90 years old. Then something clicked, I know not what. I cried, and then I cried some more. And then for good measure, I did some more crying. Maybe that's what did it.
I also said to anyone who might be listening--maybe an angel, maybe a spirit guide, maybe God--"I am sooooo tired of this! All of this! Do you hear me? I am so fucking tired! If you want me to do your work, I have to be able to do the work."
I informed Dr. Lin, my young, good-looking, ever-concerned internist, "I'm not saying I'm at the point of suicide yet, but I really don't know how much more of this I can take. I want to be able to do things--travel, walk, make my bed. Do you understand?"
Well, somebody must have understood, and he or she listened and did something because I am feeling several orders of magnitude better.
Over the course of my life, I have had hundreds of false turning points. My blood sugar would go down and my insulin requirement would drop, and I'd think, "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! My body is healing. Soon I'll be free of injections! Soon I'll be healthy and free!" Only to have the downward trend reverse until I was back to where I'd started.
But this is the longest sustained turnaround I've ever experienced. This time it's not my insulin requirement and blood sugar that have dropped. It's that I have energy once again. After more than three years of being unable to surf because of fatigue, anemia and shortness of breath, I feel I could take to the water again. I also feel like planning a trip--a trip in which I'd climb the stairs of cathedrals, stroll the whole day long through an enchanted city, and swim to sea grottos, while cavorting with the dolphins. I feel vibrant and alive again.
Thank God!
I also said to anyone who might be listening--maybe an angel, maybe a spirit guide, maybe God--"I am sooooo tired of this! All of this! Do you hear me? I am so fucking tired! If you want me to do your work, I have to be able to do the work."
I informed Dr. Lin, my young, good-looking, ever-concerned internist, "I'm not saying I'm at the point of suicide yet, but I really don't know how much more of this I can take. I want to be able to do things--travel, walk, make my bed. Do you understand?"
Well, somebody must have understood, and he or she listened and did something because I am feeling several orders of magnitude better.
Over the course of my life, I have had hundreds of false turning points. My blood sugar would go down and my insulin requirement would drop, and I'd think, "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! My body is healing. Soon I'll be free of injections! Soon I'll be healthy and free!" Only to have the downward trend reverse until I was back to where I'd started.
But this is the longest sustained turnaround I've ever experienced. This time it's not my insulin requirement and blood sugar that have dropped. It's that I have energy once again. After more than three years of being unable to surf because of fatigue, anemia and shortness of breath, I feel I could take to the water again. I also feel like planning a trip--a trip in which I'd climb the stairs of cathedrals, stroll the whole day long through an enchanted city, and swim to sea grottos, while cavorting with the dolphins. I feel vibrant and alive again.
Thank God!
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