Makes me happy.

It did not rain too much today.

That made me happy.

Something else made me happy.

Once upon a time there was a very rich land owner in Pa, who brought over an Scottish stone mason who built this house here in 1841. It was a small gatehouse for a larger estate, which I have a photo of, but stinking blogger will not let me add it. Which doesn't make me happy, BTW.

 I have sadly watched this house fall into disrepair, and it seemed so very sad to me.

I often wished that I was rich, because I would have totally taken on this house.

It would have made me happy.

I was thrilled to hear that after at least a decade, this old place is being renovated.

Yay.

It made me way happy.

 I tried to capture this, but failed.

Which did not make me happy.

This window is ancient, riddled with imperfections. Just beautiful.

This is my neck of the woods.

The Allegheny river (flowing around an island).

I live along the Conewango creek which flows into this river.

Just some random shots from my neck of the woods.

Bidding War

Tim said, out of the blue and apropos to nothing, "They're having an auction today. Let's check it out."

And we went.

The last time that we went, Tim's hand went up a lot more than I thought it should, and I ended up with a tea service that I hide because it's easier than polishing it.

Auctioneers talk too quickly, and it makes me nervous, because by the time I figure out what is going on, somebody's pointing and yelling 'sold!'

Have I ever told you that I have a 'thing' for clocks? I do. I have one that hangs in the hall. It ticks authoritatively and counts out the hours in a somberly resonating way. I love it. Everyone else hated it until now that we have a foyer, and it belongs where it is. That's my nicest one, but I've got a small collection of clocks, an old alarm clock from the 30s, but most everything else is just interesting in an ordinary way.

At the auction, a clock came up. Nobody bid on it. The price went down to $10. TEN DOLLARS. I couldn't help it. My arm went up. The auctioneer asked several times who was going to give him $12.50, but nobody did, and just when I was sure I'd spent $10 on a clock, somebody gave him $12.50. And I gave up $15 as quick as a wink. I didn't dare look at Tim. Suddenly there was a flurry of bidding, but by that point, I'd already figured out where I was putting it, and I had a severe case of covetousness that I was fully prepared to march into church and repent on the morrow. I snuck in a bid a $22.50, and then $27.50. Just I was sure that I wasn't getting a clock, the auctioneer was saying, "I need to see your number," and I was saying, "Oh, sorry," and just like that, I had a clock.

It is a William Gilbert mantle clock and it is from the mid-1800s.

Know what else?

It works! It keeps time with a very satisfying tick.

*******

Further inspection shows a wobbling gear which is probably why the chimes cannot be wound. It looks like it will be an easy fix, and once again my funny little clock will sound a gong to count out the hours and 'ting' a bell to mark the half hour.

And no. It's not going to remain on William's art table.

Stepping out of Her Rut

I've been busy lately, but restless. It is hard to explain. I have plenty that needs doing, but I can't seem to galvanize myself to get these things done.

Today, I dropped a large tin tub of pink and white geraniums off to someone who really needed a 'pick me up', driving there in a thoughtful daydreaming sort of way. I pulled the tub out of the trunk and set them in place, and headed back out, without her even knowing that I'd been there.

On the drive back home, I decided on a whim that it has been a very long time since I treated myself to a good cup of coffee, and stopped into a little cafe that I've been meaning to stop into for a very long time. The young man serving was quite talkative, and we talked about Fair Trade coffees. It's been a long time since I invested in good coffee beans, and I walked out of there with my fresh cup of coffee and it was good and I was savoring every sip as I walked down the street.

I stopped to study a store window, and saw a doll. I am not a doll collector, but I know someone who is, and so I stopped to check the name of the doll. I found myself involved in a conversation with an elderly lady, and after some minutes, I asked her name.

When she told me, I laughed. "I have some framed art of yours in my livingroom!" We walked around the store, and I recognized the names of some of the artists. I went to school with one of them. I went to church with another, and was shocked to hear that she was in a nursing home now.

These artists were painters. Sculpters. Jewelry makers. Photographers. Metal makers. Potters. Ordinary people who had jobs, and made things in their spare time. Some of it was not my cup of tea. Other stuff caught my attention.

There was one piece, a large piece. Beautiful. Although the piece itself was too modern for my taste, it was exquisite. I realized that I could do that. I realized that I had the things I needed to do that. I realized that I could adapt that art form to my own tastes.

The woman and I talked at great length. She went to school with my parents. I remembered her father in law bringing home sea shells for us when we were kids. I had never been to the ocean, and I was thrilled with those shells. She knew my uncle. A cousin. One 'life in a small town' coincidence after another.

She was a teacher, had gone to school in a one room school house. We talked about the old school where I had gone, and the names of those long ago teachers sprang readily to mind, one right after another...'Mrs. Cable, Mrs. Bower, Mrs. Ware, Mrs. Crosley, Mrs Friel...' Could it really be possible that this was all 50 years ago? We talked about the old days when all teachers played a piano. We talked about the days when teachers were not afraid to hug their students.

We talked for nearly two hours, believe it or not. My coffee was gone when I walked out of there, and I walked back to my car across a brick parking area I remembered as a child, waiting in the car with my father as my mother walked into the pharmacy for a prescription for someone. I studied the shiny reflective black tile that so fascinated me back then. I drove home remembering the squeal of playground swings and playing 'button, button' under the old square gazebo in the center of the playground.

It felt like a little vacation, really, and when I got home, I felt refreshed and invigorated, and excited about creating art.

Nash

So, Nash has been popping in regularly. After a lot of trial and error, I discovered that he likes tuna cat food, 9-Lives, and so I have a stack of cat food. When he pops in, I feed him. He comes into the kitchen, and keeps me company, but does not have access to the rest of the house yet. He is not neutered and I don't want him spraying around the house. This would only validate Tim's opinion that animals should not be allowed inside.

So, I feed him and I noticed that he is filling out nicely, which makes me happy.

I also noticed that for a stray cat, he's pretty darn picky about his food. For instance, he has turned up his nose at his tuna. Other times, he will gobble it down like it's gourmet.

I've been reminded anew what a fickle beast a cat is. Sometimes he will come to me to be petted. Other times, he looks at me as if he has never seen me before. I imagine that life as a stray makes a cat even more fickle though.

The plan is to get him neutered. I do not want to get him declawed until I am certain that he'll be content as an indoor cat. Like I said, he's got a peculiar nature that can go either way.

Today, we came home, and there was Nash. He darted into the garage, away from the car coming up the driveway. I got out of the car and called him. Tim looked at me strangely.

"What?"

"He just ran out the back of the garage. How'd he get out the back of the garage?" This was a very good question. There are no doors back there. If there is an exit big enough for a cat, we need to find it post haste. We have a coon hanging around, and I have trapped a possum out of here, not to mention a slew of red squirrels that we don't want getting in. They do a lot of damage.

I headed to the house to feed my cat. Tim headed to the back of his garage to find that egress.

He came to the house and he looked very unhappy. In a disgusted voice, he said, "There are two of 'em. Two long haired black cats. There's another one, a more skittish one that was hiding behind the garage."

Surprised, I looked down at Nash, who gazed up at me, blinking his inscrutable cat blink.

Well. Maybe it was Nash. Hard to tell.

It might have been his brother Crosby.

Anyways, he was the fatter cat. The friendly cat. The one who is not all that fond of tuna, as it turns out.

Question

I just watched The Life of Pi. What a beautiful movie.

For everyone that has seen it, I have a question. In the end, when Pi says, "So you have heard both stories. In both of them, I lose my family, and the ship sinks. So which story do you prefer?"

The writer says, "The one with the animals."

And Pi says, "...and so it is with God."

What does that mean? Maybe it will come to me after I get some sleep, but right now, I don't get it.

Winds and the cat

It's been a busy week, full of wonderful moments, but exasperatingly short on time. I got everything done that needed doing.

The stormy night did spawn tornadoes, one of which cut a four mile long swath 3 mile from the house. We were certainly lucky that most of that swath was trees instead of people.

 The world was making sounds that day that I have not heard for a very long time. It is frightening. I made a space for myself in the basement, just in case, and at one point, we were being directed to go there.  I stood on the back porch watching the pink lightning while talking to Tim and looking for my cat. The thunder grumbled on and on without ceasing high above me. It sounded so far away, yet directly over my head, and the noise really gave me the creeps.

In the end, the sirens stopped, and the sky settled down too. A new tornado warning was posted within minutes, but the sounds outside were not the same, and so I was comfortable going to bed and letting the world take care of itself, and so it did.

Nash the cat comes for dinner, and he enjoys being petted and held. He will have to be neutered before he comes in.

Sirens going off all over. "Probable tornadic activity". Headed our way. First warning expires 9:15. Ack. I've got the washer and dryer pushed apart, and I'll hide there if necessary.

Late edit: the first line of storms weakened before they got to my little town, but it was pretty scary. I don't like pink lightning. There were no tornadoes from that line of storms. We lost power, power's back. There are reports of tornado touchdowns in the county, although I have not heard of any specific areas or damage.

A second storm front is moving through, and we have tornado warnings again. It seems pretty mild. I'm going to bed.

Night all.

Late, late edit: That was quite a night. I spent a lot of it on the back porch watching the sky to the west where the storm was coming in. The sky was grumbly, with the strangest thunder I ever heard. It just did not stop...it sounded like a growl. It is now morning, and cloudy, but quiet.

Second helping of humble pie...

So I'm rushing around trying to get stuff done. I get home from work, eat supper and show the apartment (why do people make appointments, beg for a chance to look at the apartment and then not show?!! but I digress.)

Nash is back, and he's living on the second story balcony for right now, with his own little stairs to go down and up. I've got him a nice warm nest set up in a cat carrier. We'll get him prospotted and neutered and he'll be ready to come inside.

I finally found out which flavor catfood he likes - Flaked Tuna - so after the apartment showings (and the no shows), I ran into the grocery to pick up 5 cans and two bottles of diet pepsi that I use to bribe clients to work hard. (It's amazing what you can accomplish with soda pop.) Anyway, I went to the register and the cashier said, "Do you have your savings card?" And I said, proudly, "This time, I do!" (because I almost never do) and I handed it to her. She laughed. I went to swipe my debit card, and had some difficulties. I said, "I remembered the card, but I don't have my glasses."

To which the young whippersnapper said, "They're on your head."

After that humiliation, I was walking out of the store, when I saw a friend. I said, "Well, I've managed to mortify myself in the Bilo." She came very close to ROPL (rolling on the pavement laughing). 

There is that old saying: "I'm not laughing AT you, I'm laughing WITH you." Your very best friends are the ones who laugh AT you, but love you anyway.

Humble Pie.

I am not the most technical person in the world. In the state. In the county. In this house.

I was having difficult w/ our keyboard. I replaced the batteries. It still did not work. The batteries were from a package of cheapies, so my next question became: "Is this a problem with the keyboard, or with the cheap batteries?" Which lead me to get my next bright idea, which was to grab the batteries from our remote (which did work) and put them into the keyboard.

The keyboard STILL did not work. Moreover, now the remote didn't either, even after the batteries were replaced.

I finally got the keyboard to work, but the remote did not.

We get tons of advertising from the company, so I grabbed the latest and found the customer service number. I placed a call to Dish.

They couldn't find me in the system. I explained that we were 'bundled'. I gave our name, our address, both cell phone numbers.

He was getting frustrated. So was I. He kept telling me to look for a trap door on the front of the receiver. There was no trap door on the front of the receiver.

He said, "Do you see something that says System Info?"

I said, "No. It just says Direct TV..."

He said, 'hold up, hold up...'

I said, "What is this company?"

Neither one of us blurted what we were thinking and with that, I became one of those stupid people that customer service representatives will talk about forever.

Cat Tale

We leave the blubbering mess that was the last post to report good news. Sort of. William had just gone home and I walked down front of my house and saw Nash walking with a woman and a little boy on their way to the laundromat.

"Is that your cat?" I asked, and she answered "No...he just sort of started following us..." She also said she thought he belonged to people in the next block.

I snatched him up, telling him how worried I'd been about him. I gave him a celebratory dinner. I felt bad that I couldn't keep him, but I was glad to see that he was okay.

Later that evening, a neighbor guy showed up. He's seen me hunting that cat, and wanted to report that he'd found it at his house under his porch. I said, "Well, he belongs somewhere over on the next block, I heard..."

He pondered this.

He said, "If that cat comes out, and lets me catch him, I'm bringing it in."

And off he went.

That never occurred to me: that I could just bring him in, even if he belonged to someone else. He'd be safer inside, to be sure. I'm not going to say that my neighbor is doing a wrong thing.

I just wish that I had thought of it first.

A Perfect Day

It's been a busy weekend. William helped me work in the garden. We planted the rest of my seeds: watermelon, summer squash, zucchini, cantelope. I took shovels of compost and made hills to plant the seeds, and we worked together, planting them. I began shoveling more compost, looked over, and there was William talking a blue streak to himself, wielding my hoe, and uncovering the seeds we had just planted. Made me laugh.

When he got tired of planting, he ran, and called back over his shoulder, "I running, Memaw!" He kicked his soccer ball, and called back, "I kick da ball, Memaw!" When he grows up, he's surely going to be a twitter fanatic.

We went into the house and had lunch, just the two of us. Grandpa had some family obligations, and for the first time, William took his leaving quite hard. He cried, and he said, "Grandpa, I love you!" as Tim carried things to the car. Grandpa might be a strong, silent type, but I noticed that before he left, he knelt down and gave William a kiss and a hug, and told him that he loved him too.

We settled down in the living room with our lunch, and I plugged in Beatrix Potter Peter Rabbit and Friends, a BBC children's show, and the familiar gentle story of Peter Rabbit filled the room.

It was the same story that my mother read to me as a child, in my little bedroom with the white bed with the red animal silhouettes marching across the footboard, long before the days of video. In turn, I read the stories to my own children as they grew, and we watched the series on PBS.  Now I was watching the same stories come to life with my own grandson

I was folding laundry and William watched Peter. He knows what a garden is and that Mr. McGregor was working with a hoe. When he began to chase Peter, William cried, "Oh no!" and he came to me and sat in my lap, where he remained, leaned against me. I breathed in the sweet smell of a little boy's hair, savored the weight of him cuddled to me. He called out, "Run!" and "The bunny is stuck," with wide eyes.

 The sweetness of the theme song seemed to underscore the sweetness of that moment, and I sat quietly with the tears rolling. I am a sap, a sook, of the worst caliber. I have him one day a week, and in that 24 hours, I try to fill it with all the sweetness that I can, with Peter Rabbit and Winnie the Pooh, with bathtime and bubbles, and balls, and running, and wooden fire trucks and jumping on the bed, with songs about five little monkeys swinging in trees.There are wagon rides and working in the garden. There is cuddling and the 'I love you's' flow fast and furious.

I have learned from experience that these years will go by all too quickly.

Before I know it, it will be William's turn, and he will be the one reading Peter Rabbit to his children. Or watching on whatever they will watch things on in the future. Who knows? But I can only hope that his own eyes will grow distant and remembering when he hears the theme song, and I hope that he will remember the grandma who tried her best to give him perfect days.

The boy knows how to work it...

William has a new habit that he's never had before. He is putting things in his mouth. Anything that will fit. I have to watch him closely.

Today I turned to him (we were in the same room, for heaven's sake!) and saw right away that he had something in his mouth, and found him sucking vigorously on a glass bead, another one in his hand. Horrified, I did a finger sweep, removed the item, and gave him a lecture. "No William, that does NOT go in your mouth. Only food goes in your mouth."

He listened and then he cocked his head to the side. With a endearing little smile, he said, "I love you, Memaw."

Update

Yesterday, I worked. And then I went to a training. And then I worked at another job until 9. I stopped on the way home to pick up new catfood for this cat.

Only, he wasn't waiting for me when I got home.

I went looking for him last night, but he was not there. I went looking for him this morning before work. I could not find him. Tonight, I've gone around the neighborhood looking. I have not found him.

It sounds stupid, because this was a fairly new acquaintance, but I feel terrible about this. It appears that my little friend has chosen.

Naturally, he chose to depart after I finally decided on his name. He was Nash.

Morning has broken

The little cat was stretched out on my side porch, comfortably surveying his world. I believe the choosing cat has made his choice.

When I went out to greet him, he got up to come into the house, as if he belonged there, but before this can happen, he's got to be de-flea'd. I felt terrible to tell him no. I gave him his 9-Lives. He sniffed at it, and looked at me in a disappointed way, but seemed to decide that he could tolerate such a mean food and began to eat. I will try a different brand next time.

I have not decided on his name yet.

I had a very nice birthday yesterday, and today is our 15th anniversary. It is raining outside, and my vegetables needed a good soaking rain, so I am grateful for that. Still, the sound of the rain hitting the roof of my little office is a little hypnotic...it seems to be counteracting my caffeine.

I. Must. Move.

That cat.

The cat chose to come back tonight.

 I was ready. I bought him some catfood. He took one sniff at it and chose not to eat, doubtless disdainful: "Yesterday it was a can of tuna for lunch and a fair amount of ham for supper. What is this 9 Lives garbage, lady?"

After choosing not to eat,  he chose to wander off to deliver a screaming butt kicking to a neighbor cat who had strolled over with the intent of being the butt kicker, not the butt kickee.

I don't think he is a bad cat. I think he had an unfortunate kittenhood. I find myself a bit worried. Tim has no patience for cheerful, good natured cats. He'll have even less patience for a juvenile delinquent cat with gourmet tastebuds and maladaptive behaviors.

I've been digging lilac suckers and setting them out front near the sidewalk. A woman asked me how much I wanted for them. "Pllt," I said, "you don't charge for what God's giving you free." She was happy and took two peonies too.

 It tickled me to watch a man carefully carry off a small basket of lily of the valley and pachysandra. He carefully returned the little empty basket.

The Choosing Cat

Today, there was a knock on my door and the little fellow from down the street came to help me assemble and set out 42 solar lights. I had an extra box, so we sneaked down the street to his house, meaning to set them around his mother's garden for a surprise.

A cat darted across the street meowing non-stop. He followed us and directed us as we set those lights.

When we headed back home, he followed us still, looking carefully both ways before crossing the street, being a wise cat.

Beck was quite worried about this cat, and whether he had a home, and did I suppose that he might be hungry, major questions like that.

I certainly thought that it was only polite to offer him a meal. He sat patiently as we opened a can of tuna fish and put it in a dish. He licked his little smackers appreciatively when we set the bowl down in front of him and began to eat. My little friend thought that perhaps Catfish would be a good name for him. "Perhaps," I said.

 Beck thought that I should immediately bring him into the house and keep him forever. I explained to him that cats were funny people, and that sometimes they needed to decide where they belong. "Besides," I said, "wouldn't you feel terrible if you had a cat that went outside and never came back because a neighbor took him in her house and wouldn't let him out?"

Beck thought about this carefully, and thought I might be right.

We all went to a birthday party this afternoon, and on the ride back to the house, the big question was whether or not the cat would still be there.

Tim dropped us off, and went off to do some errands, not really giving a rat's butt whether Catfish was there or not. We set Beck's backpack and his bucket of party favors on the porch and took a quick look around the yard, but the cat was not there.

Beck was disappointed as we gathered up his stuff to walk the next block over to his house. He is not allowed to have a cat, his mother being very allergic, and he had been quite thrilled at the idea of co-owning a cat at my house.

I explained to him once again about cats, and that the cats who belonged to no one were always choosy about who they would let themselves belong to. As we came to the end of the driveway and turned left, towards his house, there was a meow.

"Did you hear that?" I whispered, and he whispered excitedly back, "Yes!"

And there was Catfish, coming out from under a shrub, glad to see us. He walked us back to Beck's house, once again looking carefully before he crossed the street.

People sitting on their porch laughed to see that cat walking with us like a dog. "Is he yours?" someone asked. He had been meowing at their back door a few days back and they felt terrible for him.

Beck and I explained that we were not yet sure but we thought he might be choosing us, and we walked on, the choosing cat following along.

I visited with Beck's parents in the evening as we talked about parties and cats, and then I headed home.

And the choosing cat chose to join me.

Happy Ending

Maybe 10 years ago or so, I was working night shift at a customer service call center. It was not a fun job. I was tired all the time. Two of the supervisors were just plainly women who were mean to other women.

I had friends on night shift. One of the women was young, and I felt terrible for her. She had five children at home, young ones and she always just looked exhausted. We began to talk, and she began to confide. I was horrified to find out that her husband was a drug user. He was also abusing her.

I worried about her and her children terribly, and I tried to be encouraging, but she was defeated. She simply could not imagine what she would do without him. She couldn't handle the children alone. She had a list of reasons why she could not leave. I personally think that she was so exhausted, she couldn't see clearly.

I tried to use my own experience to tell her that things work out that she just needed to take that first step, that it was not good for the children to remain in such a bad situation. I offered to help, to babysit.  We spent many a night between phone calls talking and talking. Praying too.

Things began to get worse and worse for her, dangerous actually, and then suddenly, she was gone. It turned out that she had to go on a different shift to be home with her children at night. I heard she left her husband. Then I left the company to go chase mosquitoes, and I never saw her again.

Today at the gym I saw a girl with blonde hair, a dazzling smile, deeply tanned. She was wearing a black leotard and walked with confidence. I was hauling my middle aged sweaty self to retrieve my keys, and pass card, and suddenly I stopped.

"Hi!" I said. She looked so gorgeous close up that I couldn't be sure, but I said, 'Didn't you used to work at ...." and she said, "Yes." I said, "You know, I don't know if you remember me or not..." and she said, "Of course I do," and she smiled back at me.

We talked briefly. I told her how wonderful she looked and I was so glad to see it. She said, "I had one problem. I just had to get rid of it. When I did, it all worked out just fine."

I smiled. "I love a happy ending, and I am so glad that you got yours."

Happy Day

I was getting ready for bed Saturday night when I heard the unmistakable sound of the back door opening. I hissed to Tim, "Someone just walked in the house!" and Tim said, unperturbed, "Well, you'd better go check it out."

I knew then that he was in on it, and I went in to the kitchen to see Cara with a bouquet of flowers. "Surprise!" she said. "Happy Mother's Day!"

It was exciting. William was already here, sound asleep. He had a very busy day. That morning, he had cried like crazy when I vacuumed. I had been pondering the idea for a while, but I said, "William, we're going shopping." He looked very interested. I said, "We're going to get William a vacuum cleaner of his very own." And he got very still. He looked at me and said, in the most reasonable little voice, "Memaw. I don't like vacuum." Then he added helpfully, "Like truck."

We went to the store. We bought a very realistic vacuum. Well. Realistic except for the color. It even is battery operated and makes a humming noise. William was hugely excited about the box and held it tightly all through the store, talking non-stop. When we got it home and took it out of the box, well, he cried and scrambled for the couch. After he sat on my lap for awhile, he decided it was safe enough. He began to play with it. And then he said, "Memaw? This not your vacuum, (pointing to himself) this Willnan vacuum." And I said that it was. He stood there and he said, "Memaw?" And I said, "Yes, William?" and he said, "I LIKE this vacuum." He cracks me up.

William was here, asleep, and now Cara was home.

The next day after church, I made pepperoni rolls to celebrate. Buddy and Brianna came to join us. Mike stopped in after work. I got more flowers and cards than anyone had a right to.

At the end of the day, Cara was drinking coffee to wake up for her drive home. I was putting the kitchen back to rights. She said, "Sit down." I said, "Just a minute..." and she said, "I'm only here for a short time. Savor the moment."

She was right.

 I did.

Mountaintop Week.

Life is a real mixed bag, isn't it?

I've had my struggles, and I've tried to be unflinching about them here. It's been a difficult spring, humiliating. Raised a lot of doubts, but this week has been one mountaintop experience after another. I see things. I notice.

Today, I discovered, quite by accident, how to stimulate finger flexion/extension in a hand that has barely functioned. I watched in awe as her fingers opened and closed, opened and closed. That was quite a write up.

Today, I was asked my opinion on someone that is supposed to be sensory defensive, yet as I walked in, I saw that the very opposite was true. He is sensory seeking. I knew it. I saw it immediately. I pointed this out to the staff and demonstrated my theory. They watched, and they talked between themselves. They saw that I was right. It changes the entire treatment plan. That was another write up.

Today, I was scrambling to get all my data entered, because it was crazy busy. Crazy. I worked like a mad woman, and got it all done.

As I darted by a room, I heard an employee talking to another employee. "That is a really, REALLY smart girl! Wow!" With a shock, I realized that I was overhearing a conversation about myself.

I did a little stutter step, regained my composure, and continued down the hall.

I felt like I saw a me I never saw before.

Professional

You know, having my hours cut at work was the most devastating thing. It was a confusing time. The events that played out were simple: I was not liked. Stupid things, really, that could have been sorted out, but the clinic is very clique-y. You either fit or you don't.

It's a terrible thing, to know that you don't fit, especially when you are trying so hard to fit because you love the job so very much.

It's an even worse thing at the end of it all, to have someone walk into your office and hand you a paper that says your hours have been cut. In disbelief, you look at it. You realize that at least one person in a position of power has lied about you, and you point that out. You tell her that the only written documentation that you've ever received is that you are doing an excellent job. Her response was to say that your work with the clients was "spot on". She sat quietly, looking at your shocked face, and then said, "Would you like me to close the door when I leave?" And she left.

It was a hard thing to decide what to do next. The humiliation of having your hours cut and to be 'in the sights' of the person running the show is a big deal. The other clinicians are perfunctory and short. They care about their jobs and do not want the person running the show to think they are 'on your side'.

I decided to stay, and to work my best and to see what happened next.

I have worked, and I have worked hard. I have learned that I am excellent with clients. I have learned that in my own heart. My opinion is not dependent on the opinion of anybody else. I am almost 56 years old. For 55 years, the opinions of others have mattered a great deal to me.

I have had moments so breathtakingly perfect that I cannot even tell you. Imagine having a violent non-verbal profoundly disabled person vocalize and scream and come at you. He is not a client. He is someone that I am sneaking time with, because I had a suspicion that I could help. He charged me, and I braced myself because he has attacked before. He stops, making his strange and agitated noises, and stares. I stared at him, trying to anticipate. When his face stilled, I knew. I reached my arms wide, and said, "Do you want a hug?" He came into my arms and leaned heavily against me, and we stood in the middle of the room and I rocked him back and forth gently, my hands running up and down his arms to provide proprioceptive input. The room staff, poised to intervene, stood by as I crooned to him and rocked him. He doesn't have words, but he came to me for comfort, and I was sharp enough, calm enough to recognize it.

I am good.

I am so good that while I work full time filling in for a co-worker on maternity leave, staff at the facilities that I service have begun to come to me for assistance. Yesterday, I stopped typing, and I went straightaway to a client who was having an aggressive episode. I sat at the table in an informal group session and talked and played with them. My focus was on one person, but he did not realize that. I am firm with him, and in the end, he says, "Thank you."

I am very good.

I have offers of hours to fill the hours that I have lost. I have offers that will, potentially, put me in the awkward position of perhaps having to choose where I will work. Will this pan out perfectly? I don't know, but I have a suspicion that it will. No matter what, it is a huge joy to discover that others see something in me that they covet for their own teams.

In the end, we will see. Other doors have opened up...the chance to work privately with a disabled child. The chance to counsel women making the transition from jail to the real world. The opportunity to work with an elderly gentleman. All these things will more than make up for what I have lost.

Know why? Because I am very, very good at what I do.

This week, I found myself speaking with a supervisor. Up to now, this has been difficult. I am always trying to be professional,  choking back unprofessional frustration. This time it is different. I said, "When am I to be cut back to part time?" She did not know. "How is this transition to be made? Does she come back one day and I am done? Is there a handing off period as there was when I took over?" She did not know.

We stood there, two professional women in my office. We discussed the patients that I am seeing informally. We discussed the importance of not turning our backs on them. We discussed the fact that people want me to work for them and they are pressing to know my availability.

She said, "You are right, I need to find this out."

She left my office. I stood there watching her go. There was no sting.

The Future

Today, I saw a cool thing. I was at the gym, working away, when I noticed him, a boy in the farthest corner walking on a treadmill. He walked steadily, his head bouncing from one side to another as he stepped it out, never stopping.

He was 15 maybe. He was round, and he was short. Plain, with big glasses. He was the kind of kid that you know for a fact takes a lot of crap at school.

I plodded along behind him, off to the side, and I watched him.

He never faltered. He never looked up.  He never slowed down or missed a step. He kept his eyes on his screen, watching his numbers. Heart rate, distance, incline, speed, calories burned... And that boy walked on.

I wondered about his life, because I am a curious person ~ sounds much nicer than 'nosy' doesn't it? ~ how a boy with a difficult life summons up the wherewithall to march himself into a fitness center and work out. He was alone. There was no one there to encourage him. He plodded on steadily driven by his own will.

He had been hard at it when I walked in the door. The tips of his hair were already dripping sweat. He finished when I was well over 20 minutes into my own workout. He carefully and thoroughly disinfected his machine, and then he changed his shoes and walked out the door.

God bless his little cotton socks, as they say.

I watched him walk across the parking lot, his head down, his pace as steady as if he were still on that treadmill, and you know, suddenly I felt very hopeful about our future.

How William liked his New Bed

Karen asked how William liked his new bed.  Well, truth be told, it was an exciting day. He not only had a new bed, but he had some new puzzles. He was introduced to a jack-in-the-box. He had a new wooden firetruck with rubber wheels.

When he got to the house, he looked the situation over, popped his binky to one side of his mouth and said, "Firetruck." I handed it to him, and he took off to run it back and forth while making engine noises, and siren noises, and the like.

I popped the binky out of his mouth and got him to the table, but he raised cain about eating supper, because he did not want to stop playing with his truck.

In an attempt to stave off the 'binky demands', I took him outside (yep. With the firetruck...not letting go of that...) and asked him whether he wanted to ride in the wagon. Turns out he did. He and his firetruck.

We went out for a walk and met another little boy being pulled in a wagon just like William's, and that was a bit of excitement right there, Brody being older, and more aware. William eyed Brody's wheels and didn't have much to say about it, although Brody went on for some time, introducing himself and his aunt, and talking about wagons and such. William yelled, "Bye-bye," as we continued on our way.

We went to the store to get dish soap and scrubbies for a pot. William got lifted out of his wagon, but brought his firetruck along with. He talked a blue streak.

It cracks me up that he answers questions now. I saw a pair of Lightning McQueen shoes, and I said, "Do you like these William?" He looked and squinched up his face and made the noise he makes when he doesn't approve, sort of a cross between a gag and a fart. We did not get the shoes.

He did set up quite a petition when he saw a windchime with a moon. "Moon. Bells. Me. Mine. Bells. Moooooooon, memaw!" He got them because I'm a terrible and weak person.

We went out to the wagon with our purchases, and I got him settled (and his little firetruck too). We came home the long way, and we talked about bells and moons and firetrucks. We saw a cat who came right up to us to say hello.

By the time we got home, he was ready for supper.

There was playtime.

Then he came up and asked for Winnie the Pooh, our bedtime tradition. I plugged it in knowing he was winding down, and we had his bedtime snack. He began to request his binky. I said, firmly, "No. Binkies are for when you are ready to go to bed." He pondered this.

He said, "Binky."

I gave him his binky, and he went straightaway to his little bed. He pulled the blankets back, and climbed in. He pulled the blankets up over him and laid down, and that was that.

I gave him a few minutes and checked, and he was sound asleep.

We took the binky away, and he slept through the night.

He woke up the next morning and lay for a time in his little bed, smiling sleepily.

Yes, Karen. Pretty sure he likes his bed.

PS: he didn't have a bink for the rest of the morning.

and then the miracle happened...

William was running after me down the hall. He loves to help, and I was going to do laundry. I'm not sure what the little snickerdoodle did, but there was a thunk and he was flat on his back looking up at me with a amazed look that swiftly turned to pure hysteria.

I picked up one screaming child in footy pajamas and looked for damage. Seeing none, I attempted to console him, but this was a major outrage, and required a protracted and dramatic bout of screaming. So I went from room to room with a boy screaming on one arm, grabbing laundry with the other.

I hauled it downstairs, still with screaming child.

Threw it in the washer, added the soap. All this normally fascinates William and he's helping to stuff the clothes in or to add the soap, talking a mile a minute, but he was pretty upset, so he just sat on the edge of the washer, as I did it all one handed, the other hand wrapped around his taut and outraged person. He calmed down enough to shut the lid for me.

We went upstairs.

After some cuddling on the couch, William did settle down. He helped me get the next load of laundry ready, but his parents came to take him home before the cycle ended.

When I heard the buzzer, I went downstairs, switched the loads out, noticing how much easier it is to do that when you have two hands. I started the dryer and turned to the washer. I immediately heard some very loud clunking. I simultaneously thought, "What the..." even as my mind screamed "OH NO!"

I had washed my cell phone. My cheap little Tracfone with 400 min. I stuck it in a bag of rice. Our stepson suggested putting it on the dash of a car. (Thanks Mike!) I did.

I cleaned an apartment today. I should have stayed home, because I missed the divine intervention. There were probably angels and everything. I opened the car door, grabbed the rice and cell phone from the dash. I popped the battery in, and...the cell phone works.

Wow.

It's kind of like when the Red Sea parted. But different.

Happy stuff.

William sat still to hear his first story..."Cookie Monster and the Cookie Tree". I read the same book to his mother. I even remembered how to do the voices.

Unlike his aunty Cara, he does not seem to find Jack-in-the-boxes all that traumatic. Unless of course he can't get the butterfly pushed back inside. That makes him pretty mad.

Almost bedtime. We're watching Winnie the Pooh, and winding down.

Well.

One of us is.

William's Place

 William comes and spends the night, sometimes. He is too big for his pack and play, and so we had to figure out what to do...we have bed rooms upstairs, but he is too little to be upstairs in a bed while we sleep downstairs. We want him sleeping on the same floor as us, but there is really no place for a bed. What to do?

 Then I saw a toddler bed.

This little sweet thing was small enough to fit in the corner of the office. Add a little table and chair set, and a book shelf full of his favoite toys...voila...William has his own little spot. I cannot wait for him to see it!

The Clown of God

At one of the sites I work at, there is a man who is jolly. Jolly is not a word you hear much these days, but it is the only word that truly fits him. He is a joker and his good nature delights the clients we serve. He makes people laugh. I watch him, and I like this about him very much.

At some point, he said something smart to me, and being me, I said something smart right back at him, which he wasn't expecting (he don't know me vewy well, do he?), but I could see that I had tickled him.

So the other day, I was wheeling one of my clients to the therapy room and blabbing a blue streak to him, because that is MY nature, and he stopped me. "We really haven't had a chance to meet," he said. "We've just exchanged buffoonery in the hall..." and I said, "Well, I happen to be a real fan of buffoons, so I'm pleased to meetcha!" and we laughed together in a comfortable way.

He began to explain his behavior, and I said, "Listen. You connect with people in a very real way. I love to watch you in action. You are not a buffoon. You are a clown of God."

His face grew very still and very suddenly, he was wiping tears from his face. He was crying. This time it was me who was caught unawares. I gaped a little, and said, "I did not mean this in any kind of a bad way," and at the same time he said, "No. It's not that. It just shocked me that somebody noticed. I'm really honored."

That is my gift. I'm starting to see it plainly. I notice things. I see the small details.

We spoke about a consumer, and I made my comments. My co-worker suddenly grabbed my badge. "I would have never expected THAT name," he said (not sure what he meant by that...), but off he went to talk with the manager. I was asked to attend a meeting to bring my perspective to the table. This was a little unexpected and I said, "Listen, I'm going to be perfectly honest here. I'm not sure how much weight my opinions would carry with clinicians. I'm not sure why, but I just don't mesh well with them. I try really hard because the job means an awful lot to me, but..."

And the clown of God stood before me with the strangest smile on his face.

I stopped talking, and he leaned forward as if to impart a great secret to me. "You connect with the patients just like I do. You don't fit with clinicians because...it's simple...you are NOT a clinician." He reached forward to give me a hug. "...and that is what makes all the difference."

Could it really be that simple?

I stood there stupidly, and this time it was my eyes blinking rapidly.

Parental data gaps

Last night, Cara called and we talked. She has a big presentation on Wednesday, and much to her horror discovered that her professor written on the topic some time back. She had independently reached some of the same conclusions that her professor had. She was sick to think that her professor might think that she'd cheated, and it was way too late to start over.

As a mother, my first thought was that a student would have to be crazy to plagiarize their professor, of all people. Cara had gone to the professor and explained this, and explained to her the thought processes she had used to draw her own conclusions independently during the weeks of preparation, and that she'd only become aware that her professor had been published on this when the professor herself had told Cara this, just a week before.

She's not sure what her professor thinks. She said, "I have a terrible time. I probably looked guilty as hell. I always do. I remember in fourth grade when I did a perfect map of Michigan. I took forever on it, and I was so proud. When I presented it to the teacher, I said, 'I did a good job on this and I didn't even copy it.'" Unfortunately, the teacher decided that her statement meant that she had copied it,  and was a liar. Cara said, "I was so mortified, and my face got red, and she kept saying that my face gave me away."

I'm kind of like that, myself, so I understood, but I was amazed by troubles with her teacher. That teacher attended our church and was in our Sunday school class. I had heard other parents say she targeted kids, but I didn't realize that Cara had had her trouble with her.

We talked about that, and Cara referenced another teacher she'd had problems with. That particular teacher was disturbing to me. She claimed that a ghost lived in her house and she attempted to turn this into a religious experience which I found troubling. I discussed this at length with Cara to insure that she understood that Tim and I saw things differently. Mrs. S hand wandered past her desk one day and said impatiently, "Didn't anyone ever teach you how to color properly?" In the ensuing conversation, Cara mentioned, "You know, my mother thinks you're a whack job." Mrs. S. sent her immediately to the principal's office.

"Really???!!" I said. I had a pretty good relationship with the schools. If there was a problem, they called me. "What happened next?" Turns out they had called home, but they got Tim, who went to school and sorted it all out. He took Cara home for the day, and mentioned that she might want to keep her mother's opinions to herself, especially when she was speaking to the person her mother had strong opinions about.

Now. I do remember speaking with the principal about this teacher. I do not however, have any recollection of the 'whack job' debacle.

Tonight, Cara had a rough day at work, and she called me.  To cheer her up, I told her about William's bedroom. He is too little to sleep upstairs by himself, so I bought him a little toddler bed and the sweetest little desk. These things fit perfectly into a corner of the office, so that he can sleep on the same floor as Tim and I when he comes to spend the night. I bought him two wooden puzzles and a wooden firetruck with rubber wheels.  I even found an old fashion jack in the box.

At that, Cara yelped. Turns out that her experiences with jack-in-the boxes had been pretty traumatic, and she did not remember them fondly. She called them something to the effect of little tin boxes from hell.

I did not know that either.

I seemed to have missed a lot.

Snotty

I caught one heck of a cold in February, the 22nd to be precise. On March 13th, I sought medical attention, and hard the argument with the Physcian's Assistant who decided that I was an abuser of antibiotics, having had a prescription of them the previous May.

After a bit of debate, I walked out of there with my prescription for antibiotic, and although I had asked not to get amoxicillin, which historically does not work for me, she wrote me out a prescription for a derivative of it.

I did begin to feel better, but once the antibiotic was stopped, my sinus symptoms and cough returned, and in my lackadaisical way, I decided that I didn't feel like arguing with this woman, and due to her interactions with Tim during his last situation, we decided that it was time to move onto a new doctor. Except that I didn't look for one. (I'm a busy woman.)

I got good and sick and wound up with another prescription of antibiotics for a long term sinus ailment.

You know, I finished that antibiotic, and once again, those symptoms are creeping back. I'm not sure what this is, but it appears to be immortal.

Swamped

It's begun to turn into spring here. Yesterday, coming home from work, I pulled off into a swamp area, and neverminding about my khakis and my good shoes, I trekked off with a bucket.

I was on the hunt for frog eggs. One of our sites was doing a spring theme of frogs. I suggested that we should bring in frog eggs. It is fascinating to watch them develop, hatch, and watch the tadpoles (or pollywogs, whatever you call them) turn into frogs.

Staff stopped to gape at me. Did I know where to find them? I smiled. I pass by the sprawling Akeley swamp on my way home. That place is full of frogs, and it would be a simple matter to find them. They looked doubtful, and I was surprised at how many adults had never watched such a simple thing as that, or even had an idea what frog eggs looked like.

It's been a while since I've spent time in a swamp, and it was nice to walk along the trail listening the the frog songs. I knew that where there are frogs, there must be frog eggs, so I followed my ears. I noticed that one side of the trail was higher than the other and had a slow water current as the water went from higher to lower. Frogs lay their eggs where there is no current, and so I switched to the other side where the water was lower and stagnant, and almost immediately found what I was looking for.

Crouched there intent on what I was doing, listening to the diverse life sounds of a healthy swamp, I suddenly found myself missing, really missing, my solitary days spent tramping around swamps trapping mosquitoes. I truly did love that job.

I collected my bucket and headed back out.

Everything happens for a reason, I think, and I am glad that I have the knowledge to bring such a simple gift to the people I work with now.  I love this job too.

The Story of the Three Chairs.

I haven't been over to Lori's blog for a while, but she left a comment on my blog and I thought, "Oh, gees..." and wandered over to her place. She had posted a sweet picture of the rocking chair she had as a little girl.

Her stories reminded me of my stories.

Once upon a time there was a little girl, maybe three, who had visited her grandparents. She sat in her grandmother's rocking chair, and rocked and rocked and rocked.

And lo, it was good.

It was so good that when the little girl got back home all she could think of was that lovely rocking chair. Being a resourceful child, she went to her piggy bank, emptied out two pennies and headed to town to buy a rocking chair of her very own.

She didn't get too far before the police discovered her in the middle of the street and pulled her to safety. It was about the same time that her mother came frantically searching for her. I don't believe that I actually remember that part, but family legend has it that there was a severe whupping involved. To quote my mother, I got one lick for every step towards home that I took.

When my grandparents heard this story, a large box was delivered to our house. This part I do remember. In that box were two rocking chairs. One was for me, the other for my sister.

This is that chair. It's now over 50 years old, and each of my own have rocked in it, and now my little William rocks in it.

 When Tim's mother saw the little chair, she recollected that Tim's little rocking chair was tucked away in the attic. This was retrieved and brought to our house. This is HIS 50 year old chair.

 The bear sitting on it actually belonged to my father. It was not his when he was a little boy. My brother in law's sister gave it to him for some reason. Now it lives with me.

This is my mother's rocking chair. It is not ancient. I don't imagine that it is much over 30 years old. It's a nice place to sit and rock and ponder things. My fanny fits much more comfortably in this than either of the first two rockers. If you are Australian, you are sniggering in a most unbecoming way this very second.

 This is a gratuituous William shot. "Ca-Wa" bought him a candy pacifier for Easter. It made a cute picture, but he wasn't all that excited about it, turns out. It was swapped out for the bink he has in his right hand in fairly short order.

But that chair he's sitting in? Doesn't it match nicely with the sofa?You can't really tell from the picture, but the light portion of the leaves and the chair match perfectly.

Perfectly I tell you.

I am making much of this because it appears to be its only redeeming grace.

I don't mind it, but everyone else has decided that it is deucedly uncomfortable.

Now, I realize that this has turned out to be The Story of the Four Chairs (and a sofa), but I have never been a person who knows when to end a story.

I fits.

Every week, I go to the Dollar Tree, and I gather a bunch of things to use in therapy. This week's find was large plastic jacks in neon colors. They are easier for people with limited hand skills to pick up. Children's bangle bracelets are another great find. At $1 for 12 of them in neon colors, they work great on the homemade range of motion arcs I designed out of hula hoops. A wonderful maintenance man built the wooden base for them. Punching balloons are another great thing. You can fill them with hand lotion or with beans or with rice, for different sensations as they are handled. You can also just fill them with air and bat them around, of course. You can also do some pretty amazing things with pool noodles and they are light enough that no one gets hurt. It's all about action and moving and engaging them on a physical level. Hand lotions encourage independent finger movement, flexion, extension, bilateral hand use. The ladies love scented lotion...such a small luxury. I have three bottles that allow them to make a choice, and they love that too.

Today, a director told me how glad she was that I worked in her facility. Touched, I stopped and said, "Aw! Thanks. That means a lot to hear." She looked at me and said, "You are one of ours now. We are a family."  I walked away, and I was glad for that moment. Later another staff member and I were talking about a client. I said, "Well, you're my eyes and ears. You have a lot more experience with him than I do. I certainly trust your judgment on this." Later I walked past her room and I heard her say, "I LOVE her. She LISTENS!"

Today, I had a client rush up to hug me every time he saw me in the hall. Another client couldn't wait to show me something he was VERY excited about: he had been on an outing and bought himself a Pepsi safely put away in the refrigerator. He was thrilled with that small secret, and he couldn't wait to share it with me. I talked to a client and told her that I wanted to see her use her hands and fingers more and I showed her an activity I'd created with her in mind. I said, "Is it a deal? Will you use this?" She looked at me with her brilliant smile and the word came with great effort. "Deal!" A frustrated man listened as I talked to him. At the end of the session, he smiled and said, "You make me feel better when I come to OT."

All these things...it sounds like bragging, doesn't it? But it's not. It's just that I have always been a person to notice the little things, and right this moment, my life is so full of these little things that really, my cup runneth over.

I may not fit everywhere, but where I fits, I fits good.

Life Lessons

Life lesson:

Blood pressure prescriptions...not optional my friends. Not optional.

Cara came home for the weekend. She kidnapped William. He had a great time with "CaWa", but also seemed a little bemused, not exactly certain why she was in his Mee-Ma's house. I was sick in bed, but I heard his little voice in the hall, explaining it all to CaWa. "This MEE-MA vacuum cleaner. This MEE-MA telephone. This GOMPA toothbrush. This MEE-MA toothbrush," and he led her through the house carefully pointing out his grandparent's belongings. Cara popped in to say, "Gees. I think he thinks I'm going to take your stuff."

I was telling a client about this today as we worked together. "Mee-Maw," I said, shaking my head. "Where did he come up with that? Who calls their grandma "Mee-Maw?" and worked away with her. Suddenly, she gave a quivering sigh, and I looked up, startled. Her brown eyes were far away, and filled with tears.

I stopped what I was doing, and put my face close to hers, and she sobbed against my shoulder. I cried too, for the inadvertent trigger of my words. At the end of the session, I took extra time to rub scented lotion into her hands and arms, and she smiled through her tears, delighted at the scent.

 Before long, her tears had stopped. As I gently wiped the traces of them from her cheeks, I prayed never to forget that locked inside that body without a voice there is a woman who loved ~no...loves~ her grandma.

Changed.

Today, I had a big day at work. I was trying to pick up two clients who'd been absent on my previous visit to the facility, and my Fridays are hectic to begin with. Adding two clients...well, it was the biggest daily caseload I'd ever carried, and I wasn't sure that I could do it, but...

....I begin work at 8. According to my schedule, I'm supposed to use that time to prepare for my day, and see my first client at 9. However, two clients arrive before 9, and so I started a few minutes early.

...clients eat their lunch at 11, so generally speaking, that time is used to enter the morning notes. I gave up the morning data entry and saw two clients with g-tubes who do not eat lunch.

...I skipped my own lunch break and saw another client.

...and one of my appointments was absent.

One by one, I went down through my list, doing therapy, making notes, checking people off.

By the end of the day, I had seen them all.

I used my one hour at the end of the day, and typed like crazy, getting the day's data entry done in one hour. I walked out of there feeling very accomplished. Although my day was cram-jammed, I can say that no sessions were rushed. There was eye contact, and there were hugs. A chance to meet a family member. I made important discoveries about two very challenging clients which led to very successful sessions. Things like that thrill me in a way that I cannot explain.

You know, for most of my life, I've been doing some pretty negative self talk. I have often tried to break myself of the habit. Today, I found myself striding across the parking lot, my rain coat flapping loose in the breeze. I realized that I was having another inner dialogue. For the first time, I heard me telling myself, "You are very good at what you do. You have a God-given skill to reach people. You are where you are supposed to be."

I stood at my car for a minute, amazed at the changes in myself. At 55, I have become self-confident, and I'm not sure how it happened, but I drove home being very grateful that it has.

Math

I received a sweet note in the mail complimenting me on a recent column. The writers, a married couple, liked that I noticed the details of life and appreciated them, just as they do.

I was touched by it.

I also recognized his name, and his youthful face came to mind immediately. He came to teach at my elementary school, replacing the elderly Mrs B who taught me, and who had taught my father before me in the self same school, a sweet lady who talked to the teddy bears on the piano (remember when almost all the teacher played piano?) and who called me 'Jerry' because I looked like my father.

Then young Mr. E came to take her place.

I got to thinking about it a little. Mr. E was, say 22 or 23, when he came to teach. I was perhaps 10.

That young man who came to take that elderly teacher's place all those years ago has to be almost 70 himself. 

Gadzooks.

I hate math.

Books

I ordered some primary books for William, Dr. Suess. I received an e-mail from the company that detailed the billing of these books. Since I had paid for them with my credit card at the time of purchase, I wanted to make sure that the payment had been processed. I responded to the e-mail and received a reply from (I kid you not) Anne Shirley.

That made me laugh.

I wonder if she sits next to Tom Sawyer. Or Ramona Beasley QUIMBY. (Red-faced late edit)

Spring

Last night I went to bed a 9 PM. The night before that, I woke up at 3 AM from a nightmare, and never did fall back asleep. My mind being what it is began to whirl off into why I would have dreamt such a dream, and what did it mean. Then I began to incorporate it into that book that I am writing in my head....long story short, suddenly the alarm clock was ringing and I was tired as heck but had to get up anyway.

Yesterday, at work, I realized how this whole situation there has changed my perspective.

I had a glowing moment with a client who doesn't look at you. She can talk but she doesn't. I asked hera question and then waited for the answer...30 seconds...1 min...suddenly, it came...she whispered "Yes."
It was a great moment, and my heart nearly burst with the thrill of it, but I just quietly tied off her necklace, and placed it around her head, telling her how pretty she was. I told her that I would see her next week, and then, on a whim, I held out my arms and said, "Do I get a hug?" And with a shy smile, she walked into my arms and stood there with her head against my shoulder.

I walked out of the room satisfied with my day's work.

Thinking about the job, I felt so terrible about the cut in hours. It was offered up with criticisms. I have discovered that things are not what they seemed, initially. Once the shame and the disappointment eased, I have re-discovered that I actually am very good at what I do. I have re-realized that it fills me with satisfaction. I am good with people. I can connect.

I was trying to explain it to Cara. "It sounds like I'm bragging, but..." and she stopped me with a simple, "Mom. Sometimes you should brag. I'm proud of you."

I felt sort of a wonder at that.

It's a fit, where I am, with my clients, but the job itself is very 'clique-y'. It is the sort of place where it is best not to interact any more than necessary with co-workers, because it becomes hot gossip around the lunch table. An example? I was walking down the hall when I looked over to see a PT talking to a speech therapist. Another OT hissed "Ooooh. A LOVE interest?" I looked at her, surprised. I know that the PT is a gabber, like me. We've stopped and talked, as far as that goes. I had seen the same scene that my co-worker had, but I saw two people talking in a friendly way. I didn't know how to respond, but I knew that I had heard how she would speak about me the minute she saw something rude to say. I saw someone who would be forever a work acquaintance. Never a friend. That's how the clinic is.

But I do what I do for myself. I enjoy what I do. I enjoy the magic of connecting. It amazes me every time that it happens, and excuse me if I sound like a braggart, but it does happen. It happened again today. I do what I do for the client. I will continue to work the hours I have left to me, and I will fill those other hours with substitute positions. Making the decision to keep my head down and work hard and try my best to ignore the rest of it was the wise thing to do, even though it was difficult. People have watched me, and people have come to compliment me on my professionalism, and on the work that I do.

And so the cold knot of disappointment and shame has begun to loosen inside me, being replaced with something warmer. The season is changing.

Last night, coming out of the gym, I listened to the peepers.

It is spring.

Last night I went to bed early because I was worn out from a long day and the sleepless night before it. I fell asleep, soundly, right away. I woke up, briefly to hear the rain outside and a crack of thunder, and I smiled half awake in the dark.

It is spring.

This morning, the alarm went off, and I got up and wandered to the kitchen to make coffee. I did not need to turn on the heater. The ceramic tile of the office floor did not feel freezing to my feet.

It is spring.

Beauteous table

This is the table that we got for $29.

 Isn't it gorgeous?

 It will take a while to get all the dust off, but I'm working on it.

 Isn't the detail just gorgeous?

I'm in love with this table.

I know exactly where it is going.

What a find!

Tim loves this old dead tree. It is right next to the house we just bought. Nature boy is going to leave it there for all the birds.

He really loves this house.  It will take a while to make this live-able, but he adores it. He gets the same look in his eye that I get when I talk about the house that I love so much.

We are, unfortunately, talking about two different houses.

It was much, much easier when we were in love with the same house.

Spring

Yesterday, it happened. Spring has sprung. It was in the seventies.

It was warm when I went to church. It was warmer when I came out. I worked out for an hour and when I walked out of the gym, it was warmer yet.

It was a good day to be outside. Tim and I turned over the dirt in our garden. It is good rich dirt. We have a supply of very aged mulch to use for the cucumber hills and to make a pumpkin patch for William. It felt good to be outside and working.

We went to the new house to look around. The neighbor was out taking advantage of the nice weather too so we walked across the little stone and earth bridge that connects the two properties. Turns out we know these people.

I love the house I'm in, and I never ever want to move, but Tim is very excited about this house. It's on the edge of the woods. It has a garage for him to work in. He has all these plans.

In a very secret part of my heart it has occurred to me that this little house will be perfect for him one day if he were ever to be left alone.  Our house would be way too big for one person to rattle around alone in. I think that it would also be hard to live in a house that is so full of "us".

It' a strange way to think. My mind always heads off in that direction when I have that yearly visit to the cancer center looming on the horizon, and in part, that is why I simply caved after hearing Tim talk about this house for weeks.

It's a bit like insurance, I guess. We may never need it, but it's good to know that it's there.

We went to the grocery store to get groceries for the week. While we were standing in line, we chatted with Wilma, who Tim and I worked with back when we first met working in a factory that no longer exists. While we were talking with Wilma, I looked over and two lines away, I see another one of the people from that company. I said hi to John. Within seconds, I saw Rich, the fellow that hired me to work there. Makes me smile. I needed the job desperately, truth be told, but I had no idea that the job would change my life.

While we were all blabbing, I recognized yet another voice. One of our old tenants was the cashier, and I had not even recognized her. Wilma laughed. "That's a sign you're getting old, honey!" and I told her to shush, with a twisted up face, and we all had another hearty laugh as she swept out the door.

By that time, another woman from church came up to chat. She discovered that we live two doors down from a house that she owns.

The cashier said, "Don't forget your purse!" We had come from the garden. I did not have a purse with me. I recognized that it was Wilma's.

I darted out the door with it, and I found her in the parking lot. "Talk about getting old!" I said, and she laughed at me, wondering what I was going to say next. I said nothing, but held up her purse. Her laugh changed to a horrified look. "Oh, gees!" she gasped. I handed over her purse and we had one final chuckle.

Tim came along and said, "Let's go home," and so we did.

Tim has questions.

Last fall, Tim had received a gift card to a fancy-dancy restaurant. We'd never used it. Today we decided to do just that.

Tim said, "On the way up, why don't we stop and look at that chair that you like for the livingroom?"

I've been looking for an upholstered wing back chair for quite a while, but our couch is kind of busy (see above) not to be confused with the busy grandson (also see above). I just happened to stop into this 'junk' store and found two of them, matching chairs in a mossy silver green color that will match with the couch.

When Tim saw them, he liked them too, although he said, "Green? Our couch has green in it?"

He asks the most bizarre questions, sometimes.

I was showing him something else when he saw it, a long table under a pile of junk in a corner. We could see carving and a pedestal beneath it. It was a old table, probably 5 feet long. The veneer is damaged on the top, but Tim had just seen an program on the DIY network and was excited to try stripping the veneer. I liked it immediately. It looks (to me) as if it was a table that came out of a church somewhere.

Tim asked another bizarre question. "Where would you put it?" The obvious answer is (of course) that it is a lovely piece of furniture and we'll find the perfect place for it.

Of course, it had no price on it. I went off to find the proprieter, who came back and acted a little surprised that there WAS a table underneath everything. He pondered it and said, "Okay, $29." I was a bit incredulous since he has some really cheaply put together stuff at what I consider to be exorbitant prices. I looked at Tim. He looked at me. "We'll take it," he said, "and we'll take one of those chairs over there."

Checking out, I saw, of all things a set of baoding balls in a display. I got excited, since these are a good therapy tool and I have two clients that I can think of off hand that would benefit from these. I asked about them, and the guy said, "I'll tell you what...$3.00."

Tim had another question: "What do you need those for?"

We went out for a steak dinner, I noticed that when the man has a belly full of beef, he stops asking questions.

Roger Ebert

I guess that I don't understand the hub-bub, not really. The comment was made that Roger Ebert "did NOT lose his courageous battle with cancer, but that cancer took his life."

I'll admit that it peeves me to read obituaries where it seems de rigueur to say "------- -------- passed peacefully after a courageous battle with cancer."

What choice do people have, really? You get cancer, you need to suck it up and start pushing back with all your might. It's a battle of wits, a massive headgame. You've got to wrap your head around the fact that you might have the disease that will end your life and at the same time grit your teeth and say to yourself, "...but by God, it hasn't killed me yet."

So in that context the words 'courageous battle' bug me. I didn't consider myself brave. I was simply playing the hand I got dealt. Hardly anyone I know who's dealing with it think of themselves as brave. They just wake up everyday and keep on going, try to stay positive. Play the hand that they are dealt, just like me, just like millions of others in this world.

So yes. The obituary phrase makes me grit my teeth. I'm sure all those courageous people had their moments of weakness. Just like me. I'm sure that sometimes they lay in bed thinking and they got scared. Just like me. But that doesn't look good in the paper. You can't say, "------- -------- passed away peacefully after a fairly decent battle with cancer, but s/he had weak moments and sometimes s/he cried in the dark." Or even, "------ -----  died after turning into a sniveling coward upon hearing the cancer diagnosis."

Naw. You can't say stuff like that. Even if it is true.

But...THIS thing: Roger Ebert "did NOT lose his courageous battle with cancer, but that cancer took his life."

Okay.

"Cancer took Roger Ebert's life."

There.

But I ask you true. Saying it that way? What the hell did it change?

Pushing through

I'm sitting here in the dark at the computer with a glass of wine.

I got a bit off track with my workouts during the neverending cold, and have resumed them. I was surprised at the initial difficulty. I was exhausted and it was hard to breathe. Today, I did 6.5 mi. doing a double cardio, the first was a 30 min 'armblaster' workout. Then I did a 35 min 'cool down' cardio on the treadmill, 3.5 mph. I was exhausted, but a good exhausted, but today, for the first time, I felt like I was back on track, so to speak.

You know, being a parent of adult children is hard stuff. You see them making foolish choices and it leaves you with a choice; you can either say, "Ah well, they are adults..." or you can say, "You're an adult and you're going to do what you're going to do, but your choice is an irresponsible one."

I was at a store when I saw one of my former Sunday School students, and I talked to him for a while. His dad came up and we talked a bit too. At one point, the father said something and his boy squinched up his face impatiently. Unperturbed, his father said, "I'm your father, and it is my job to tell you the truth."

Tonight, I looked into the face of my adult child. I took a deep breath and I said, "You're an adult and you're going to do what you're going to do, but your choice is an irresponsible and selfish one." I said no more.

I felt like crap for saying it. I would have felt like crap if I didn't.

Impatient

Today, it snowed.

Tomorrow, it's supposed to snow again. Wednesday, more snow.

I'm trying to be patient. There are tiny crocuses popping up their heads, and the asparagus in the back yard has shoots. The hostas are pushing through. The snow drops shyly look at their cold feet. In the morning, when I leave for work, I heard the birds singing and it sounds like spring. The snow has melted off downtown.

Everywhere I look I can see the tiniest glimpses of spring and the promise of better days coming.

But today, it snowed.

Tomorrow, it's supposed to snow again. Wednesday, more snow.

Easter Morning

Tim and I attend different churches nowadays. I wish that I could sit beside my husband in the pew, but I can't. My thinking doesn't fit his church, and he has never been able to stay awake through a sermon in my church, something that we discovered years ago when trying to decide on which church to attend.

My church begins earlier, and is just a few blocks away, so I'm out the door before he is, and because we linger in the mornings, I tend to cut it very close, timewise, because the church is so very close, distancewise.

Today, I was quite sorry about that because as I rushed to the Easter service, I saw a man, carefully raking a town park.

I've seen him before, and he is always alone. He is always carrying garden tools. His head is always down, as if he is carefully picking his path through our world. I've watched him for years, actually, and he has always been alone, although I did discover that he is an artist. I watched him nursing his hot coffee in a coffee house, drawing a picture. I wanted to talk to him then, but I did not want to intrude on his solitude.

When I saw him today, he was working carefully, sweeping, raking. I was in a rush to get into the church, and so I said a quick prayer as I rushed up the stairs to church, "Please God, let him be here when church is over."

Much to my delight, he was still there, sitting on a bench smoking a cigar, surveying the world through satisfied eyes. He studied me warily as I swept across the park straight for him.

I said, "I prayed that you'd still be here," and he responded comfortably, "Well, your prayers have been answered."

So we talked for 20 minutes, like old friends. He does what he does for the peace that he finds in doing it, he tells me. He tells me his views on God, and I am a bit surprised to find that our views are remarkably similar. He does not go to church, he says, because he finds that the people there judge him, and he believes that people should spend more time judging themselves. I was left without words there, because this is at the heart of my own belief system.

He does not want to be written about in the paper, because he likes his solitude. He is uncomfortable with recognition. He is a happy man, he tells me, most of the time, although when he spends too much time with people, he finds himself questioning himself.

As I listened to him talk, I said, "Gees. You remind me of John the Baptist. You are so full of Godly wisdom, but you walk a lonely path." He smiled. He reads the Bible every day, and he told me a story from the Bible, about Jesus being judged by the Sanhedrin. They asked Him if he was ordained by God, or by man. He responded, asking them whether they thought John the Baptist was ordained by God, or by man. They responded saying they did not know. Jesus did not answer their question.

I said, "Well, I'd guess the only reason they were asking him is because they wanted to judge his answer," to which my friend responded, "You are correct." We talked about leaps of faith, about saying, "Okay, God, I am trusting you," and then wandering off the beaten path.

Both of us have done that in a way. In a way, this man and I are kindred spirits. We sat in a park amidst the neat piles of debris he'd carefully swept into piles, and we talked about God.

I hated to go, but I gave him a hug, and I said, "I'll be looking for you. If you don't mind, I'd like to visit with you again.

He smiled gently, and he said, "I'd like that."