September Eleventh

This is the ninth anniversary of the worst terrorist attack ever inflicted on our nation. It is also my oldest maternal uncle's eightieth birthday. Uncle's mother, my grandmother, would have celebrated her 101st birthday today. A good friend and co-worker will always know that her birthday is easily remembered by all who knew her then. Nine eleven, as we often shortcut the day's description, has had a profound effect on my life. I rejoice in the existence of those born on this day while mourning the loss of the many whose lives ended so suddenly in 2001. For now I offer a prayer of thanks in the hope that Grandma will be eavesdropping. I will call Uncle Vic because he means so much to me and I have the need to tell him. I'll drop a note to Sandy wishing her the best of days. The newspapers and television coverage will continue the marathon commemoration of our national tragedy. I am grateful that I have so much to celebrate today!

Water

Officially, I am a year older having celebrated a birthday last week. That's the least of the story. On the day prior to my planned celebration, Ol' Abner mentioned that he was having difficulty seeing from his left eye. He mentioned this as we were hauling a plastic draped load of furniture on an open trailer from another city in a deluge. He was a little sketchy with the details in one of those "how-can-you-be-so-dense" responses when I questioned the depth of his condition. He has a cataract and recently diagnosed AMD. Since he could still see the little spot in the center of the eye chart posted on the fridge, he vehemently ruled out the possibility that the trouble was anything more than progression of the cataract. The water pouring from the sky caused all other discussion to be postponed. The following day was blessed with rain predictions never fulfilled. We drove over to a nearby city, enjoyed a walk along the water, shopped a bit, then indulged in a delightful dinner. During our leisurely drive home he alluded to flashing and big "floaters" appearing regularly in the field of vision on his left...OH..OH..OH! Relating some of the danger signs listed when researching his condition and the admonition from the medical pros to call immediately if any of that list should occur, I urged him to call for an appointment in the optical lab. He admitted to not wanting to dampen the enjoyment of my birthday celebration and since he had a scheduled foot appointment for today, he had planned to call for a consult in the optical clinic. HMMMMM. Arriving home after regular clinic hours he promised to call Friday morning. I reminded him again, and again and he finally gave up procrastination and called around noon. Response from the optical clinic was "COME RIGHT NOW!". We jumped in the car and drove through sprinkling rain and ever increasing holiday traffic. It's just over a three hour drive via winding mountain roads to the medical center responsible for his care. The diagnosis: Detached Retina (specifically two holes with liquid leaking around them) resulting with vision in the eye in imminent danger. This was not the dreaded Age-related Macular Degeneration changing from "Dry" to "Wet", but equally as threatening. The staff sprang into action, photographing his inner eye, poking it hither and yon, letting him look at charts he couldn't read and then scrambling him into a ready and waiting OR for lazer "tacking". Spring forward to today. His scheduled appointment was conveniently piggy backed with the follow-up from the Friday. He was right about that at least. We left home in sprinkly rain drops and damp roads. On the first hill exiting our town, an oncoming pick-up truck came around the corner in a sideways skid and very nearly helped us over the other side of the mountain. Rain intermittently poured or drizzled all three hours of travel and two more near misses by hydroplaning, sliding and skidding vehicles had us totally on edge. Torrents of water drenching the car made me feel like I needed a towel inside. I really don't like to travel in rain, so it could be said I was in a never ending nightmare. Tonight we are safely home, dry, and thankful for a good progress report on Ol' Abner's eye. Now if all this water will just soak on in and go on into the lake. It could be worse. Tornados are tracing around friends and family in Texas. Enough water everywhere!

Summer Delights

Sometimes I just get tired of hearing friends and neighbors complain about the oppressive heat! I prefer to fully embrace the last lazy days of summer. After all, I no longer have to traipse through the frenzy of back-to-school preparation, one thing not missed. No argument, the dog days of summer can be miserably exhausting just from the weight of the hot humid muggy air that seems unique to the Ozarks. Sitting on the porch for a bit to enjoy my coffee this morning, I looked forward to autumn and the beautiful eruption of color coming along with cooler days. Yes! Look forward! No! No! Enjoy NOW! Next winter I will hear fellow hill folks lamenting the bitter cold and anticipating the arrival of spring! Right now, I will enjoy!
Enjoy the taste of cold watermelon
Enjoy watching hummingbirds in a feeding frenzy
Enjoy a cruise on the lake without needing a sweater
Enjoy a pedicure so barefoot sandals can be worn with joy
Enjoy dead-heading the geraniums, so new blooms can sprout
Enjoy watching tiny fawn's spots disappear
Enjoy a watermelon margarita
Enjoy sitting on the porch to read the morning paper
Enjoy pulling a sprig of mint from a pot on the porch for perking up the fruit
Enjoy fresh rosemary at the bottom of the steps, just to sniff or to add to a dish
Enjoy the sound of birds chirping in early morning (I know this isn't Summer ONLY)
Enjoy the beauty of many shades of green

Holiday What?

Ol' Abner has decreed that the Christmas decorations must be cleaned out soon. In the last couple of years, only one of the four Christmas trees has been erected, using only about a fifth of the tree ornaments encased in plastic totes. Various holiday decor to celebrate the season of cheer, has been left in the basement unused for several years. In the hubbub of the holiday, I usually go down and pull out a few of the containers, remove some of the treasures and lug them upstairs. Many of those "treasures" have never seen the upper level of this house. With multiple moves, we acquired several trees of varying sizes as we migrated from big house to tiny house and back to average size house. Of course all the scratched glass balls can be pitched out, the kitchy gag gifts received in holiday party exchanges should have met that fate when they arrived, and other decorations have not worn well with time. Ok, mentally the task is almost done, uh, maybe not. Those handmade dough ornaments and cardboard frames with photos inserted by tiny hands cannot go. They haven't made the cut for the themed tree in several years, yet I cling to the memories of young hands and faces clutching these little productions. Oh dear, it is only August and I have the urge to go downstairs to reassure myself that the treasures are safe.

From the mouths of dogs

"my halo is temporarily out of order" was the message on the front of our neighbor's shirt. Mrs. "Paw-lie"s attire often reflects her tongue-in-cheek attitude. On the downhill slope of her seventieth decade, she's entitled to a bit of attitude. She loves my dog though, always carrying treats in her pocket, just in case we happen to stop by on our neighborhood excursions. An owner of two canines herself, it's not surprising that one of her shirts proclaims "Today's Agenda" as: "let the dog out, let the dog in, let the dog out, let the dog in, let the dog out, let the dog in..." you get the picture. Her reply to my comment on that one was "Gotta find that other shirt, so I know what to do about the other dog". Her aging pets, both rescued critters, suffer with bad knees and lack of teeth, that somehow enhances their individual charms. Phoebe only had one tooth when she came to live with Ms Paw-lie. The vet had opted to leave that lone tooth so her tongue would not fall out of her mouth. The tiny chihuahua of mixed ancestry walks around now sans that tooth with her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth in search of worms. Her vision is impaired, her hearing gone, but sense of smell is doubly acute. She can smell our dog coming a block away and alerts the household of the coming visitor. The second little fellow is a pomeranian mixed with some other breed. His charcoal grey fur that shoots straight out in thick fluff all over his little body gives creedence to his moniker, Gizmo. He loves to come stomping out barking like an attack dog, he cannot run on his bad knees, only to bask in delight when we bend down to scratch his arching neck. Our labrador retriever plays tag with him in the front yard, and he is always sure he dominated the match. If for some reason the trio doesn't come out to meet us as we walk by, Belle loiters in the driveway, and is not above just having a seat to await them. She will bark loudly to attract their attention if she believes that her presence has not been properly noted. Oh yes, it is pretty clear who is in charge on this side of the mountain.

Another Bad Hair Day

My hair grows in a circle around my head and down into my face. I have always coveted the perfectly arranged hair of others as it flowed smoothly down the neck and stayed there. Perfect pageboy or flipped up ends that did not flatten on one side and sway on the other were my hairstyle goals in youth, still unattainable in my senior years. My hairdresser is sympathetic but realistically urges me to accept the "quirkiness of my hair" and embrace it's natural tendencies. Hmmm...seems I have heard that advice before with no reference to my errant locks.

Ol' Abner and I embraced parenthood with joyful anticipation, only to be sunken into the panic of a premature birth with limited expectation of the baby's survival. Only prayer and the reassurance of medical professionals that the latest knowledge for treating and supporting our tiny new being were being used, kept us from total dispair. Not only did the child survive, but surpassed the expectations of her doctors as she thrived. Pediatricians at the medical school asked for updates on her condition as we watched for signs of the trauma she had endured in their valiant effort to keep her alive.

She grew and met the milestones considered normal and sometimes advanced for her age. Some habits were brushed aside as unusual, but not cause for serious concern. Her frustrating inability to sleep more than a few minutes often preceded by a crawl around the crib while pounding her head on the mattress. At just over four months of age, awe at her progress in pulling up on four limbs was expressed. Pounding her head...not to worry, she will soon outgrow it, they told me. Mattress replacements every few months throughout her childhood proved them wrong. Our family physician after witnessing some of her strange symptoms in early adolescence advised me to be vigilant but allow her to find her way. He felt she would one day put these "quirks" behind her. A couple of years later a psychiatrist advised me that he could not change her behavior but would help me "accept and celebrate her quirks". There's that advice again. She still wasn't sleeping at night as we replaced yet another mattress.

As a mother herself now, I am not sure if she sleeps through the night or not. She tells me she no longer pounds her head. I guess they were right, she did outgrow it. Her interpretation of our acceptance of her "quirks" translates to lack of structure. Claiming she so craved structure during her childhood, she works diligently to maintain it for her children. The boundaries she refused to accept in her youth have been firmly planted around her children. No tolerance for quirks is allowed if it disrupts the enforcement of her needed structure. The weaknesses Ol' Abner and I perceived in our parents were the very strengths we sought to nurture in our parenting. So strange to see that same reflection in the rearing of the grandchildren. Now if my hairdresser could just reflect a coiffure without quirks!

Footwork

Ol' Abner suffers from diabetes...and "suffer" is an understatement. After nearly a year in denial, he finally allowed the medical professionals to convince him of his diabetic status. Taking oral medication and cutting "sugar" from his diet was the first sacrifice he made. Never in the habit of indulging in the sweet goodies regularly, he didn't think it would take much effort. The fact: his forays into the world of dessert usually involved consumption of a fourth of a cake or half a pan of bread pudding. I learned to adapt recipes to use non sugar sweeteners and he switched to fresh fruit to satisfy his newly vocal "sweet tooth" on most days. This method of treating his condition with minor adjustments in the medications has been the pattern for nearly a decade.

In recent months, he was urged to check his blood sugar more frequently and keep a record. It was and still is pretty much out of control. We have found many delicious recipes through the years that shouldn't have this affect on him, unfortunately he didn't read the part about portion control. A recipe producing four servings would be consumed at one sitting. Enrollment in a weight loss program unveiled some unwelcome truths regarding portion size and frequency of food intake. He increased the length and frequency of his walks, much to the delight of the four-legged member of the household. Fried foods have been completely removed from his diet and brown rice has become a staple. He has dropped a few pounds, but is very disappointed that weight loss is so slow.

His podiatrist prescribed special shoes for him a few months ago so that his feet would be protected while he increased the amount of walking. When we arrived at the provider for the shoes, one pair was offered, not the two pair she had prescribed. In addition, the fellow handling the service didn't fit them properly. Returning this week to the podiatrist, we recounted the episode of the shoe fitting. She was livid at the poor fit and lack of adherance to the order for two pair of shoes. We were sent posthaste back to the shoe lab for adjustment and an additional pair of shoes. A different fitter worked with Ol' Abner this time, actually measuring his foot and offering several different styles. The previous issue were dumped in the trash and new shoes for athletic walking were carefully fitted and adjusted with inserts for proper fit and support. Another pair, in a dressier style was ordered since his size was not in stock. We left with instructions to return when notified that the second pair had arrived so that any adjustments could be made. As we left, I was walking behind him like the dutiful wife that I am, and was amazed at the difference in his gait. Yesterday, he walked his usual mile and a half and returned without feeling exhausted. This morning he made the trek in five minutes less.

Maybe we now have control of the foot and the mouth. Perhaps he will see a drop on the scale soon.