Child Gratitude

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was,
'thank you,' that would suffice.
- Meister Eckhart

Well, my son is back in school. You may think the above quote is in reference to that. However, as much as I am thankful for school and free time and time to work on art and writing and housework and time to sit and think and to learn and to drink passion fruit ice tea in total silence in a big chair, that quote is actually in reference to how thankful I am to have been given such a beautiful boy. I'm not one of those moms that cries on the first day of school, in fact I'm more likely to open a bottle of champagne, but I have to say that he has been a bringer of wonder and sunshine and love into my life that makes me feel blessed and content.


He did this little "friends" book two years ago and I keep it where I can look at it often.
I am so proud of him and his compassion and care. He is an awesome basketball guy and fisherman and idea man.



I get so frustrated and irritable sometimes, unsure and confused on how to do it all. Homework, drum lessons, Boy Scouts, breakfast, lunch, dinner, baths, clean clothes and a game of Yahtzee here and there. And I only have ONE! He's a good guy and I'm lucky. Here is a poem I wrote about him a couple years ago....

Child

Here’s the real deal about having one. He smells
like a pickle after his nap. I don’t know where it comes from,
not the diaper or the bed sheets, but from somewhere
around the face. Sweat behind the ears or in the neck crease,
I sniff around but it’s mysterious. And he hits me.
Smack in the face because he doesn’t have the words
to say I don’t want chicken or these shoes hurt my feet.
So the right hand reels back like a pitcher winding up,
the elbow cocks out at some exotic angle from the body
and he connects with my left temple. And then I hold his hand
solid and hard in mine until he cries.

The real deal is that I introduce him to the stick bugs
in the backyard like he’s Johnny Carson, complete
with a drum roll on the wooden chair slats
and a round of applause. Inside the house, I scrunch him up
in my arms and we smoosh our foreheads together,
eye to eye until we laugh out loud. And he is
the only one permitted to call me a horse.

The real deal is that now I am terrified of death. In fact,
I’d rather be a body and a head sitting in a chair, my arms
and legs shriveled up by tumors or a new brand
of flesh eating disease. But goddamit it, keep me alive,
because no one will ever love this boy like I do. And that’s
the day I understand the woman jumping
off the sixth floor of the parking garage, holding her child
in her arms. I understand the woman feeding Percocet
to her daughters before she feeds a handful to herself. She’s
just a woman whose despair grew like a field of weeds.
A mother who knew she had to go, and in her own leaving,
had to take that thing with her, that thing in the world
she loved the best.

Empyreal

See the sky as IMAX theater. A cupped palm
over our heads. Meteor skimming across.
Falling stars. Thunderheads. Distance. Silent
music. Sitting outside on the driveway watching Venus rise.
Pink clouds fluffed like cotton candy...no,
no, not that easy, not cotton candy
but pink as the edge of a scar, fluffed
like old insulation or a dust bunny
or that puff of cartoon smoke from the tailpipe
of a car driven by Huckleberry Hound. The color
of a two day old bruise. The color
of paint #6 in the paint-by-number kit.
The color of the lightest part
of the chubby blueberry beginning to rot
in the fridge. The color of the deep-inside
of ice. The color of a plum, bitten.

Constellations; both known and forgotten.
Stars and planets glittering like sleet.




The background for oak trees.
The trees; a silhouette of dancers.

Dark and wild.
A dance of sparkles.
Bright and something...something, not cheery
or hopeful but forgiving maybe.
Bright and forgiving. Laying on the cool ground
and watching satellites, watching
airplanes, jet streams, watching nothing
but black. Lightning cracking the sky apart.
A fingernail moon on a soft canvas.

Bread and Water

Here's what I like best about zucchini bread. It doesn't taste like zucchini. It tastes like cinnamon spice cakebread. And yet, we can make it sound as if we're getting in a serving of vegetables by saying the word zucchini. I'm afraid some of you may be under the false impression that I'm a vegetarian or something like that. Actually, I think I love the growing of the vegetables even more than eating them, although I love that too. But I adore a nice, yummy hunk of tenderloin, medium to medium rare. YUMMMM. With a chewy, thick red wine. And then some broccoli or cauliflower, or mashed turnip or baked tomatoes with basil on the side is heavenly. But, back to the bread. This zucchini bread is tasty-licious! And YOU can make it too.

Fact: I freeze two small loaves to burn in my fire pit on the Day of the Dead. That's the day my dad died and I always send him some. He LOVED zucchini bread.

INGREDIENTS

* 3 eggs
* 1 cup vegetable oil
* 2 cups white sugar
* 2 cups grated zucchini
* 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
* 3 cups all-purpose flour
* 3 teaspoons ground cinnamon
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1/4 teaspoon baking powder
* 1 teaspoon salt
* 1/2 cup chopped walnuts (optional)

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F ( 165 degrees C). Grease and flour two 8x4 inch loaf pans.
2. In a large bowl, beat eggs until light and frothy. Mix in oil and sugar. Stir in zucchini and vanilla. Combine flour, cinnamon, soda, baking powder, salt and nuts; stir into the egg mixture. Divide batter into prepared pans.
3. Bake for 60 to 70 minutes, or until done.

Speaking of food, Jay and I fed my mama her dinner tonight. We've been going in during lunch or dinner to get the lady fed. They don't seem to understand that she cannot ask for food or water, that she will not respond to general questions like "are you full?" and that she needs lots of fluids. So we do it, just to make sure she's getting one full, good meal a day. Tonight she had pureed brownish stuff (Jay guessed it was string beans and I guessed turkey), pureed orange stuff (Jay - sweet potatoes, me - carrots or squash), and a scoop of mashed potatoes. She drank 3 glasses of water and ate all her applesauce. The staff is getting to know us :)

Jay is just wonderful in his care of her. He wheels her back to her room, gives her drinks of water and brushes her hair. He wets a napkin to wipe her face when that pureed stuff gets out of hand, and sets her baby right-side-up when she's a bit askew. Good practice for when I need it, I suppose. ("Live now" I hear those voices in my head sing)

Here is a picture, albeit a close-up, of my mom and Jay holding hands. I've always loved to take pictures of people's hands. I used to ask my dad to "lace your fingers together like you always do so I can take a picture of them" and he would always comply, although often with a worrisome look on his face.

Life is a grindstone. Whether it grinds us down or
polishes us up depends on us.
--Thomas L. Holdcroft

Whew

It's not like nothin's been going on around here. I didn't take FOUR days off because life was boring. I've just been so darn busy. And although I think I've thrown out the "no excuses" line before, I have to return to it. I feel guilty when I don't write for a couple days! But guilty in a good way. Criminetly (and I am not even looking that up), this is my JOB!!!!! This is part of my four freakin hours a day of creative endeavor. By the way, endeavor means..."your best shot" which I love. No judgement, no hype...just the best you can do.
I went to the farmers market this morning. These are little drops of sunshine, aka, yellow tomatoes. They are so good to just put in a strainer and eat all day long. Walk thru the kitchen, pop a tomato, walk back thru the kitchen, pop a tomato. I also bought homemade pasta, green salsa, chicken/spinach tamales, yellow squash and bread. I love it there. I was walking around smiling like a dork, so happy to be around all those fresh vegetables, and outside with blue sky, and random people-chatter around me but not pointed at me. I started to think of all the places I'll never go to again. Not in bad way, just how there are places where you think, wow, I really liked ________ and I'll probably never be in that place again. I was thinking about my parents independent living facility in Fountain Hills, Arizona. I LOVED that place. Jay and I used to go down there two weekends a month. We'd stay right there in their smallish apartment in this fairly large building where everyone except the two of us were at least seventy years old. Man, I miss that place. We'd go down to the big dining room and sit at tables for six and other people were always wanting to join us because there was a CHILD at the table. Jay was about 5 and the star of the show. There was all this courtesy and friendliness, and there were scads of grandmas and grandpas. We'd eat things like poached salmon with a caper cream sauce or chicken with garlic mashed potatoes. Everyone got the same thing. A hundred people, no choices, eat what's in front of you. And it was always good. The softest, yummiest dinner rolls I've ever had. Then, outside there was this huge Olympic sized swimming pool that no one would ever be in except Jay and me. It was clean and not too cold and we'd hang out by this big pool for a couple hours during the day. My dad would be sitting in his big chair back in their living room watching the Diamondbacks or the Cubs, and my mom would be putting clothes away or sitting by the pool watching little Jay bob about. And today I was just thinking how I'll never go back there. Of course, I know that it wouldn't be the same anyway. I'd probably get weepy and Jay would be embarrassed, and obviously my parents wouldn't be there...and so I'd end up frustrated at Jay for not holding my hand and the whole thing would be a big tension knot :) And I guess I do still get to go back to that place.....it just lives in my head now.


This is Archie's nose. He is trying to escape. There is a place he never wants to be again and it's in the fenced in side yard. Archie wants to be peeing on the nice smooth cool kitchen floor. He wants to be gnawing on my leather sandal, with a slight low growly sound erupting when Stan comes near. Speaking of Stan, here he is modeling my latest hat. Hats available soon on hatsbyjill.com. Just kidding. I always try and do creative things to make money but they pretty much never work. So, I'm just making them for the sake of making them. And so I can take pictures of dogs wearing them.

You're probably on vegetable overload but here's a stillgreen Mr Stripey tomato. If we can just have about 30 days of sun, he'll stripe up pretty good. I'm making zucchini bread tomorrow, and veggie soup tomorrow night. Okay, okay, further veggie talk suspended for this evening.

Well, I feel much better now. Writing always makes me feel better even though I often dread sitting down to do it. Weird. I'm going to attempt to put links on this post to send you to Arcosanti (last Monday's field trip) and to the urban trail system (last Friday's bike riding field trip), if I can figure out the link thing. Reason for my celebatory glass of wine this evening?! Jay starts school in three days!!! whoo-hoo!

Width and Depth

I'll start off with a limerick in honor of Stan, including inspirational Stan photo.

There once was a dog named Stan,
who was really a small furry man.
He rested his head
on a soft comfy bed,
and said, "Bring me treats if you can."

Ta-dummm.
I can see that blog writing can get to the point of being so self absorbed. I have to admit though, I do like it. I'm writing more than I have in ages! And I like that I have no way of knowing if anyone is actually even reading it. I'm not sure what the exact root is here - vanity? lunacy? bird flu? - but I also must admit that I like the act of writing even more when I assume someone might be reading it. And still, I prefer the not knowing.

This funny tomato grew in the garden. I felt compelled to add eyes. I do so love the accidents of life. I think it was quite tame of me to assume that it's a nose and decorate accordingly. I took about 30 pictures of it and then laughed and laughed when I realized I was taking pictures of a goofy vegetable (okay, fruit) with pasted on eyes.

My mother is improving. She can't really speak much or respond but she had 20 staples taken out of her hip yesterday and I'm sure it feels better. I can tell how she's feeling by her facial expressions and the last couple times Jay and I have been up there, she's smiling and alert. She loves to watch Teletubbies and Curious George so I Scotch taped the TV channel setting to Channel 8, PBS, today so she can see good things. And I tend to become a maniac when I find that someone has changed her channel to Jerry Springer. Maybe I'll just super glue it to channel eight. Ha!

This was her at seventy-five. I hope I'm feeling that good at seventy-five. I'm getting my fair entries ready and I thought I'd include this picture of my dad and little Jay too.


You can't do anything about the length of your life, but
you can do something about its width and depth.
--H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Jay's News

My son, Jay, has a news flash.....MY MOM CRASHED INTO A BMW THIS MORNING. Yes, he's saying that to everyone we've seen today. No matter if we know them or not. No matter if they are standing next to us in line at the grocery store or two blocks away downtown, he's letting everyone know. Hollering, in fact. Shouting it out, loud and clear. Now, let me clarify. I did not CRASH into anything. I was parallel parked downtown and the car in front of me had left me with not quite enough room to pull out. I very gently backed up to give my self room, while looking in the rear view mirror AND backing up at 2 mph. The woman pulling out of the bank was looking toward her left and we lightly touched bumpers. Yes, lightly touched. Of course, the sound of lightly touching bumpers can be very loud and jarring, BUT it was by no means a crash. We both got out and looked over the non-damage. Both apologized, and got back in our cars and drove away. But, now I am the woman, in my son's eyes, who crashed into a BMW. He recalled a Cops episode (where in the heck is he watching cops?!) where something similar happened. "Mom," he said, "Do you know what a hit and run is?" Yes I do I said but that is NOT what I did.

I can't wait until school starts so I can go back to doing the embarrassing things by myself.

Harold

I was reminded today, by my friend Tracy, of this great quote......

"Don't ask yourself what the world needs - ask yourself what makes you
come alive, and then go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."
---Harold Whitman

It's in my quote file but I had, yes indeed, forgotten about it. And I LOVE it. And now I must go look up Harold Whitman, who supposedly uttered these fine words, and find out what was going on with him.

(Run downstairs, throw in laundry, change Sally - the turtle's - water and scrub her with a toothbrush, let out Archie the dog, get the mail, thumb thru People Magazine - Britney is really losing her mind, look in Jay's room for a watch, at his request, can't find the watch, sit back down at computer and type in Harold Whitman, find nothing except for the quote)

I'm back. And it appears that the above quote was Harold's one and only claim to fame. I'm thinking that he was too alive and far too busy to sit around coming up with quotes. And so, the thought for the day....what makes you come alive?

Dreamin'

There are two main recurring dreams I've had throughout my life. There was this one I used to have as a child and into my twenties about a duck. It wasn't a real duck but an animated one. Kind of like the duck in the "Suzy's Zoo" brand cards, if you've ever seen those. It was like the stuffed duck in this picture, but nothing else in the dream was animated, only this little duck fellow. He was bright yellow and about 4 inches tall. Friendly as all get out. I don't think he had a name but he would follow me around, kind of like an itty bitty dog. Those dreams always left me feeling quite happy. My niece had one kind of similar but she had this tiny string man. He was very bright - all different colors of string twisted into a little stick man, hanging out, a little dream friend. The other dream is one I've had in my adult life. I'm sitting on a very clean white bed with my niece (the one from the string man dream) and I see a spider crawling on the bed. I grab a Kleenex and pick up the spider. It crawls out of the Kleenex and bites me on the finger. Ouch! (Actually that "ouch was inserted for blog interest only, in the dream there is no pain at all) I put the Kleenex down and squeeze my finger to get the poison out and at first it's kind of icky and brown but as I squeeze, it becomes clear and harmless. Then I look over and say to my niece, "I had to get that shit out of there." I always like that dream too because I feel so good when I wake up. And I spend the few days after that dream thinking about what all I need to work on and deal with. I haven't had either dream in a while but I do think about them.

Dreams are amazing. After my father died I wanted so badly to dream about him. I wanted him to show up in his old Knightsbridge trousers and one of those shirts he used to like that had short sleeves and a type of elastic trim at the bottom, where you don't tuck them in but they still look quite respectable. I wanted him to tell me it was all okay and that he was just hanging out, fine and dandy. I didn't dream about him for a year! I did have a dream about him several months ago where I walked into this lunchroom of a school, a big type gymnasium with those long speckled fold-up tables and he was sitting at a table with his head in his hands. He looked up and saw me and smiled and yet wasn't actually waiting for me. He was waiting on my mom. That was kind of a cool dream. He didn't even talk to me in the dream but he made it very clear that, although he was glad to see me, it wasn't me he was waiting at the lunch table for. Of course, it's just like my dad to not bring the lunch but plan on my mom to do it. I like to think she's going to show up in that lunch room someday with a liver and onion sandwich and some Lay's sour cream and onion chips, which I'm sure is the other thing he's waiting for.

Updates

Mom
My mama is improving. Yesterday she walked (with a walker) over a hundred steps. The physical therapist is great and encouraging and talks to my mom and smiles a lot. My mom smiles back and says a few words here and there. But, put that walker in front of her, show her where to hang on, and she's off. She can put all her weight on that one leg, and although she is still really bruised up, she's getting better. The Director of the facility has been very nice. He's listened to my concerns and worked to correct some of the ick. He keeps his door open and is very kind. And I know that I can be a stickler about things. (Once when I was in Europe a million years ago, I argued with a Taxi driver because he started the meter too early. I found out that I was arguing over 4 cents. If he's reading my blog I'd like to take this moment to apologize.) So, here's the big learning hoo-ha.....no one will love and take care of your relatives like you will. This is the same lesson I learned when I owned a retail business - no employee will take care of the store like you would. Even if they're a good person in general, they will sluff off, make personal calls and might even steal from you. Cause it ain't their store. So, this time around I am reminded that, if I want my mom taken care of in an acceptable manner, I must be vigilant. I must supervise. Here's my advice (oh no, run for the hills!)...Be there. Visit at all different hours. If you don't live there, call at all different hours. Especially in the evening when the supervisors have gone home. Be vocal. Voice your worries and complaints. Also, see what's right and say that too. Try to find one relative or friend that can drop in once a day. And if you find your mother sitting at the dining table naked underneath a very thin, open in the back, flimsy hospital gown; shivering, then get some clothes from her room and dress her yourself. Don't rely on someone else to do it all.


Garden
Lots of zucchini. Round stripped cantaloupes. Green tomatoes galore, ready to redden with the sun that's coming back. Turnips getting fatter. Pumpkins no where to be seen (that one tiny one fell off boohoo). Watermelons no chance in hell. The monsoon rains made everything all lush and bright. I could go for another week of that but I think the sun is back. I do believe I'll get some full size cantaloupe though.

Creativity
Well, I finished the book, "Honeymoon With My Brother" and have also read one called "The Wasp Eater." I started "Abundance" last night. It's about Marie Antoinette and it's quite good already. I consider the blackberry excursion a creative endeavor and I'm almost done knitting another hat. I made a butterscotch pie that turned out absolutely horrid. However, eating the butterscotch pudding stuff out of the pan after I filled the pie crust was yummy. Can I just say here that I desperately want school to start. It's much tougher than I thought it would be to attempt any kind of opus when I'm trying to entertain a nine-year-old at the same time. But no excuses!!! Is drinking wine considered creative? Ha!

Answer this....

What will you do with your one wild and precious life?
--Mary Oliver

I decided it was time to throw down my favorite quote. Today, I picked black berries. They are right now in my freezer, with plans to be made into a pie in the next couple days. Hours ago they were settled on bushes in Oak Creek Canyon, listening to the sound of water splashing and falling against rock. They were hidden underneath green leaves, waiting for us to pluck them off their springy vines. It was so fun and so darn painful! The bushes are full of thorns. This is why black berries are so expensive! I'm sure I ate a hundred, and brought home a few hundred more.
Even Jay, who is an avowed fruit hater, was dipping into the bucket and tossing back the berries. They were so juicy and sweet. And the sun and the water and the laughing were perfect little pieces all falling together to make the day whole and fine. I needed a good day.
It was a great day.

Blackberry metaphor for Carolyn: Picking blackberries is like life; you think you have found all the best, biggest berries, and then you take a step, or turn around, and there is the perfect clump of purple-black morsels, hidden and waiting just for you. Ha! Cheeeeessey.

Getting back to that quote, isn't it funny how one thinks in terms of the future...as in, what AM I going to do with my one wild and precious life? When, in fact, we are all LIVING our precious life now. I love that quote. I first found it on one of the doors in the Liberal Arts building at NAU when I was a student there. It stuck with me for months. I wrote it down, copied it on my computer in an amazingly excellent font and huge letters. I hung it up on my fridge. I tried to live my W&P life more on purpose. And then, I think I must have stuck it in a file cabinet and let the whole idea go. That's something I love about words; how they can compel you to live more, or better. How they can make you look at your life or situation and re-evaluate. It's so easy to put the good ones in a file though. That's why we should all pick our favorite quote and paint it on the living room wall :) Or write it with a Sharpie on the dashboard of the car. I won't go as far as to say tattoo it on your forehead backwards, although that is an option. Keep it in sight.

Why people have gardens

They (me) have gardens so that they (me) can have a reason to walk into the backyard during a slight drizzle. Then people (me) can look over all the luscious wet green leaves of cantaloupe vines and zucchini and radish and turnip tops. All the vibrant red tomatoes and the soft yellow banana peppers. They (me) have gardens so they (me) can experience that lovely euphoria, while gazing at the drops of dew still visible, that lasts maybe a minute, and washes away all the soul dust. And then they (me) spy another tangerine colored pumpkin flower and they (me) get another wave of garden bliss. People (me) have gardens so they (me) can pull a fat turnip out of the ground, run it under the hose in the drizzly evening and cut it into pieces. They (me) might hold a piece up to their (my) nose and smell that fresh pungent turnip smell before dropping it into the soup with the carrots and celery and chicken and tiny strange pastas shaped like itty pinwheels. People (me) have gardens so they can eat turnips that were nothing once. Well, maybe just a small brown seed the size of a speck. A seed that grew there in the dark ground and became the reason some people (me) might have a garden.

"One turnip from the garden" Chicken Soup
8 cups chicken broth (low sodium if store bought)
2 handfulls chopped up raw carrots
1 handful chopped up celery
1/2 handful finely diced onion
10 whole garlic cloves, cut in half
1 turnip from the garden, sliced
4 handfuls chicken, cooked and shredded (omit if vegetarian)
Add all ingredients together and bring to a boil. Lower heat and cook for about half an hour until veggies are tender.
Then add a scant handful of tiny pasta in the oddest shapes you might find. Let simmer for another 10 minutes or until pasta is no longer crunchy. Have with a nice brown bread.
Wine suggestion; Wild Horse Pinot Noir

Oops!

Where in the heck have I been?! Well, spending a lot of time with my mom right now. This is a good thing. I'm the thorn in the side of Skilled Nursing at the facility where my mom is. I make sure they maneuver her into the wheelchair without allowing a 90 degree bend. I make sure she has enough pain meds but not too much. They know I'm lurking around every corner. I'm standing over everyone's shoulder. I think they're slightly scared of me and kind of unsure about what I might do next. And they don't even laugh when I say that "I'm not really a doctor, I just play one on TV." She's doing really well with the physical therapy and has stood up, although needs help taking a step. The hip replacement did not cure the Alzheimers, which I did not expect but it sure would have been nice. My dad said two things to me right before he died. He said, "So, when do we dance?" and "Take care of your mother." I am.

Today I had a major setback. I bought an article of clothing. Totally by accident. (If that statement confuses you, read 'The What and The Why', my third entry) I had taken Jay to see the Cardinals practice and we were looking at the merchandise. He wanted a shirt so bad and they had some fairly inexpensive kids t-shirts. I bought him one and he said, hey mom, get one too. And I DID!! Ugh! I totally forgot. I felt so awful! So, as penance, I am pushing my date of being able to be a clothing consumer up to July 1st instead of June 1st. So, I still am a non clothes buying person for 12 months. I didn't even realize what I had done until I was sitting there on the lush green grass, watching those beautiful football men running plays and catching passes and I looked at the bag filled with two kids shirts (I got the extra large for me - much cheaper to buy kids clothes by the way) and understood what I had done. I'm thinking about not even wearing the shirt until 2009 anyway. It just gripes me because I really have been conscious and serious about my sacrifices and then I blew it. Brush it off. Get back on track. Whew.


Threw in a funny picture of me and my mom and the tallest man in the world. He was at my dad's grocery store a million years ago and my mom and I had to get a shot. Man, those were the days!

Knitting gives me a tension knot

I've been knitting. As a general rule, I despise knitting. The needles are too long and I always pull the yarn too tight and then I can't get the one needle underneath the yarn and I miss stitches and it's basically a huge lesson in futility. Plus, my fingers get in the way, and the instructions appear to written in a foreign language. But now I LOVE it. I found a new way to knit. As you can see, hats have already been made! I'm using these round looms. I wrap the yarn around the loom, use one small hook instrument, and then, wa-laa, there is a hat.



I've also been making beaded mason jar hanging lanterns. I'm a weirdo. This picture does not do them justice. I do need to refine the finished product a bit and put about an inch and a half of fine, clean sand in the bottom for the candle to nestle in. They look beautiful at night lit up outside. I like the plain-ness of the mason jar with the little bit of bead pizazz on the handle.


As for me and my day...after the cake comes out of the oven (It's my dad's birthday today and although he died three years ago, I really like the ritual of still making him a cake. I spend the day thinking about him and honoring him a bit. And I'm sure that somebody will eat the cake.), I'm going to head up to see my mom. It appears that they're taking much better care of her now that I've lit a fire under their bums.

Part two, the second time

Quote of the late evening:
"Never be afraid to make someone do what is right"
jmd


It's only an hour from the time I wrote that last blog, but after midnight tonight, I have vowed to get back to my creative whirl...so, I must catch you up first. After calling three doctors, and after they, very graciously called the facility and the doctor who released my mama, that doctor called me himself. I voiced my concern, informed him that I'm not usually the squeaky wheel, but, for my mother I will do whatever I have to do to assure that she is well cared for. Huh-ummm....in fact, I'll be a calling the insurance company in the morning to inquire as to how long the average hospital stay is for a hip replacement in a older woman with dementia. And, if she's not smiling and alert when I go see her in the morning, I'll need her readmitted to the hospital, because that's how she was the last two days when I saw her. And, I'd like to see a list of the times and amounts and kinds of pills she's been given. And, I'd be heading up to see my mama in a few minutes and I hoped they'd have a "watcher" with her by then. So I tromped up there at 9:30 pm, and my mama was much better. Clean, new diaper, pillow strapped between her legs to keep her from tweaking her new hip, warm blanket, tucked in bed, very nice woman sitting in a chair at the side of her bed, watching The Closer, I think, on tv and glancing at my mom occasionally. That's all I wanted. No disco ball or caviar milkshakes. Just good care. I just wanted someone to do the right thing. Thank you.

Now I am going to go finish my glass of wine, go to bed, and start a new book from the library. Creativity can wait until tomorrow. And again, thank you.

I was going to write about something else

Well, here I sit, drinking a lush glass of rich red wine from a bottle that cost over ONE STINKIN HUNDRED DOLLARS. No, I am not celebrating. (I really did not intend for my blog to be a vent, only a smiling icon of creativity, oh well. And I really have only had half a glass. Can I talk about my mother?) My mom got released today from the hospital to a skilled nursing facility. Less than 72 hours after a hip replacement. She's 87. She has severe Alzheimers (capitalized merely because it really is that big). I went to see her. Can you hear me scream from where you are? Here's the diff....Hospital...tucked in bed, warm and cozy, catheter in, a sitter who SITS by her side 24 hours a day, correct meds, healthy shakes and pureed food, fed while still hot (the food, not the shakes), the pillow between her legs - put there to keep her from crossing her legs...strapped on, sweet nurses, monitored, watched, cared for. Skilled nursing (with little skill or nursing).....no blanket pulled up, no diaper on, no one watching her, no rails on the bed, leg pillow tweaked, MAYBE they might be able to check on her once an hour but no guarantee, pureed food sitting there cold with no one to feed her. Clothes disheveled. Lortab extreme so at 72 hours she is half, no, one quarter as alert as she was an HOUR after the surgery. The doctor that released her unavailable. I've been on the phone for the last three hours trying to get her readmitted. But no one can do it. "She must have some type of medical reason" they all say. How about, well, maybe, what do you call it.... insufficient medical care!

Back to the wine....for those of you that didn't know, I used to own a wine store. I bought (cheap) several bottles that were pretty darn swanky. I have realized lately that it's really pointless to save things for a "special" occasion or the "right" time. So, I'm having a glass of special as we speak(write). Live. Now. Please.

Mom - Part Two

Life is weird. Hours after the "All about my mom" post, she fell and broke her hip. Since she really has no language to speak of (is that a pun?), the only way to gauge if she feels pain is by facial expression. A nurse could ask her how she is and my mom would have no idea what or how to respond. In fact, it wouldn't even dawn on her that a response was required. And, actually, she probably would have forgotten both the pain and the question by the time the inquiry was finished. So I felt good being able to translate, and to let all the care giving people know that, no, she cannot respond, she cannot answer questions, and she cannot follow directions. Oh, but she'll smile at you and she does seem to understand a bit of what's said. (She also has Pick's disease, which takes away language.) They all prepared me for the worst; she's frail and has dementia and is 87 years old and "you just never know."

I thought a lot about life and death sitting with her in the emergency room Thursday night. I thought a lot about it all day Friday, talking to the anaesthesiologist and the bone doctor and the nurses (who were all kind and wonderful), and taking Jay up before the surgery to kiss his grandma, and sitting in the waiting room and cafeteria (awesome food at that Flagstaff Medical Center by the way) while she was in surgery and post-op. Shout out to Maggie and Alyson who sat with me.

Man, I was scared. I was also wondering, as usual. I kept thinking about quality of life...and living life...and what's for the best...and why... and I thought, in-between my own fear and anxiousness, that whatever happens is okay.

But I tell ya, when they let me go up to her room after the surgery and the post-op, and she was alert and she looked up at me and smiled and gave a little laugh (Yeah, after a new hip, she's chuckling), I was so flipping happy. I was so unbelievably happy that my own little mama was still here, still smiling, and still not remembering a darn thing. A little bit of selfishness on my part but I still need hugs from that lady, and she's still here to give them.

All About My Mom

May you live all the days of your life.
--Jonathan Swift





I went to see my mom yesterday. She's my little sweetheart and my big motivator.










Here is a poem about her....




Care

I would stand in the circular drive
at McEachron elementary school, my hand splayed out
above my eyes, watching
for the Olds.
When it pulled up, I would struggle
with the heavy door against
the Kansas wind and settle my slight
ten year old self
on the burgundy velvet bench seat.
We were going to Bike’s
Burger Bar for thirteen cent hamburgers
while all the other kids sat
at the gray formica tables in the stark gymnasium,
eating beef-a-roni and drinking milk
from tiny red and white cartons.

Every other Friday at exactly noon
she came to get me;
the only one leaving school for lunch, the only one
having a Bike’s hamburger with french fries
and a pop. Sitting at the speckled table,
my mother would listen as I talked in-between bites;
she would ask questions,
and make sure I had enough ketchup.
I don’t know what we talked about; recess maybe,
a mean boy or how my cat, Tony,
could meow the loudest of all the cats.
And before she took me back
she would dip her napkin in the cold,
sharp ice water and wipe my face.

On Saturdays she would let me
polish the philodendrons with a cotton ball
and a plastic cup of milk and mayonnaise.
She would vacuum,
and iron sheets and handkerchiefs
while I knelt on the floor
and cleaned each soft green leaf.

Now we are walking down a sidewalk
where nothing is familiar
to her. Not the cars passing, not the house
where they have lived
for seventeen years, not even me. I think
that I would like her to take me to Bike’s Burger Bar
again, or mix the milk and mayonnaise
with an old tarnished spoon
and let me wash the leaves
for her. I would like to sit together
by the side of the house, planting marigolds
and petunias, dropping the pink, writhing earthworms
in a Folgers Coffee can; the scant grounds
of coffee left in the bottom
for food. I would like to go somewhere with her
and have her listen to me, and ask questions,
and make sure I have enough ketchup.

She will not ask any questions today.
But the hand that I hold is the one that once held
the damp napkin and washed the lunch from my face.
It is the one
that held the iron
and planted the marigolds, the one that
opened the Folgers and turned off the light
before I slept. As we keep walking, I settle
myself against her slight frame,
draping my arm across her shoulder,
and hold tight to the body, living.

End



Not to get preachy here, cause you know I hate preachy, but this woman had a miserable, abusive childhood. And then somehow, she pulled it together, and she became a great mom and wife and community volunteer. She was the queen of macrame plant hangers, and the stand-on-the-porch-and watch-the-tornadoes-roll-in gal. She was there for me and my family, for her friends, and even for herself. She had a wonderful balance in her world.



This last picture is from yesterday. When I walked in she was snoozing on the couch. She woke up when I sat down. I chatted, she sat next to me. She has the smoothest, softest skin of anyone I know. She put her hand on my hair, like she's done a million times before, and I knew that if she could have said any one full complete sentence it would have been..."When are you going to do something with your hair?"

Wrestling with the Numen

Just wanted to pass on this great word....

Word of the Day: Numen (noun)

Pronunciation: ['nyu-men]

Definition: (1) The spirit, driving force or divine presence (but not a deity) residing in a particular kind of object or place; (2) creative powers or spirit, a muse with attitude and muscle.

Usage: The plural is numens or numina; no one seems to care. Just remember that the vowel [e] becomes [i] in the Latin plural, as it does in the adjective, numinous "containing the aura of a supernatural or divine power." Aside from their many gods, the Romans believed in particular powers that resided in objects that explained their behavior. For example Frutesca was the numen (spirit, driving force) of fruit, while Fulgora was the numen of lightning. Mercia was the numen that caused laziness and Maturna, the numen that held couples together.

Suggested Usage: Numina are expected to protect the things they abide in. When parents return home to find the children asleep but the house a wreck, they might say, "The numina of our house must have been away for the evening." However, the word today also refers to one's creative powers as opposed to the gentler muse: "I'm waiting for my numen to move me toward the completion of this Word of the Day."

Etymology: Today's word comes from Latin numen "nod, behest or beck, divine will" from nuere "to nod." Akin to Greek neuein "to nod" and nyssein, nyttein "to prick, sting." The same Proto-Indo-European root emerged in Sanskrit as navate, nauti "he moves, turns" and nudati "push, jerk,". The original idea was that the nod of a godly head leads to good fortune and numina were spirits of the gods.

Define it.

What IS creativity anyway?! As I am half way into my second month of Opus, I am trying to define it a bit...okay, maybe I'm just trying to see what I can CALL creative that might also be functional (dusting?), or selfish (reading People magazine?) and still get my four hours completed. And if I make it sound like a chore, please remember, this year of Opus is all about working at creativity, not waiting for the muse to whap me on the head. So yes, it's a chore; a lovely, fascinating, beautiful chore.

The official word...creative 1. Having the ability or power to create. 2. Creating; productive. 3. Characterized by originality and expressiveness.; imaginative.

I will catch you up a little on what HAS been done that is unquestionable; (1) Transferred 50 hours of super 8 film onto DVD as the first step in my documentary about my mother. (2) Created, framed, and filled out paperwork for 5 County Fair art entries. (3) Wrote two average poems and one good one...partial revisions also done. (4) Planted three gardens and obtained canning jars and on-line canning instruction. (5) Am working on one piece of furniture...well, a drawer actually. I've painted it, and fiddled with pictures and words. It's really more of an art piece. I'm chronicling the whole process on film to post here when I finish.

Those seem to be true creative projects. Totally allowable. These next things are items I think I can squeeze into the four hours but are slightly iffy; (1) Taught first session poetry class at NAU (2) Started a great book, Honeymoon With my Brother. (3) Tried out several new recipes, including pesto/cracker crumb coated salmon and mushroom and spinach enchiladas. (4) Saw the play, The Underpants. (5) Started a blog :)

And then these last ones are borderline at best; (1) Filed four stacks of papers, receipts and writings (2) Played golf with my son (this is far more creative than you would think). (3) Brushed the dogs (4) Thumbed through my 40+ pages of quotes thinking about including a quote on each blog.
Tangent alert...quotes give me hope and courage many times when I have trouble finding those things within myself. For example...

If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then
by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.
--Vincent Van Gogh, Dutch Post-Impressionist Painter

I also fished at the trout farm which, in a round about way, struck a creative chord. Picture this - a small pond filled with so many fat trout that all you do is throw your line (tied to a long bamboo pole)into the water and thirty fish start fighting for the bait. And it's mostly kids and they are all flipping fish out of the water and the fish are slapping all over the ground and bait's flying off hooks and the kids are squealing and parents are flailing and hollaring and it's all on fast forward. The whole thing made me laugh so hard I had tears running down my face. It's like a keystone cops production line of fishing. And if laughing isn't at least fuel for creating....

How does this garden grow?

This is the first Mr Stripey tomato. He has plenty of time to grow very big and very striped. What a flipping cool thing. I still don't think I'll believe it until I see it...red tomato, orange stripes. Who ever heard of such a thing? Genetically altered? Freak of nature? My plan is to go to an Amish seed web site (yes there is) and get my seeds there for next year. Heirloom, I believe, is what they call them.
Then, I'll figure out how to harvest the seeds from my own plants to sow the following year.

And next we have a wee pumpkin. I love to grow pumpkins, even if it is stupidly optimistic. The growing season is so short here that they almost never get big and ripe. I don't even care if all I get are the pumpkin flowers. They are beautiful, all huge and sticky and yellow-orange. And the plants are wild and green and they have those tiny springy-type vines that shoot out and grab hold of other plants and the random trellis. Those little buggers are strong!

This small okra fellow is cool. He's the only one so far. Anyone have any good okra recipes? I'm hoping, of course, for more than one okra. They tend to be quite slimey if you don't prepare them right. My dad was a huge okra fan.

And finally, my favorite of the day. The smallish, purple hiding turnip. Can you see him? He's just expanding underground, quiet and nestled in the dirt. I will put him in soup with fat chunks of hamburger and carrots and a bit of pasta. In the fall when it's chilly at night and time to wear sweatpants again. Yum.