Don't ask me why...

My husband collects Reader's Digest Condensed Books.  Please, don't ask me why.


Several years ago, he looked at the numerous copies on our shelves and decided that he would like to collect a copy of every one that had ever been published.  To that end, he began visiting rummage sales and used book stores.  The fact that these books were give-aways at rummage sales should have been a hint to him, but he persisted.


When it became clear to me that he was actually serious, I inquired as to how many linear feet would be required to keep one of every copy on a shelf.  I then hired a carpenter to come in and build the necessary shelving.  Shortly thereafter, I discovered to my exasperation that there were stacks on the floor.
"What is this?"
"Oh, I discovered that there were some special volumes that I didn't know about."
Sigh...and here I thought I had made provision.


Later still I discovered a stack of boxes almost as tall as I am just inside the door of his den.  I could barely open the door.  When he came home, I asked what was in the boxes.  His answer?  "My second set."


Second set!!!  What on earth could he be planning to do with them?  No one is ever going to be interested in the first set!  The library won't even take them for it's book sale.  No one buys them at rummage sales...at least not now that he isn't out there trolling for them.  Reader's Digest Condensed books are sort of like zucchinis at the end of the summer.  The only way to get rid of them is to stick them in a friend's car and run the other way before he sees you.


The crowded condition of his den caused him to move into my den to work on the taxes.  His laptop ended up on my sewing table and the papers were spread out the length of my ironing board.  I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue, because I did want him to do the taxes.


Recently I tried to clean up in the attic.  Oh, no!  More boxes...lots of boxes in the attic.  This is apparently a third set.  I have become convinced that they mate and reproduce up there in the dark.


Last weekend we had a rummage sale.  In preparation, he spread out hundreds of books and organized them by date placing them in labeled boxes.  We did a brisk business at the sale, but not one single volume disappeared.  We even left them out in front of the house overnight, and disappointingly, not one was stolen.


We have an old coal burning furnace in the basement.  When the power goes out, we can heat the entire house with a wood fire in that old furnace.  If we ever run out of wood, I take comfort that we have an abundance of fuel....all sorted by date.


Fortunately, my husband has many redeeming qualities.  If anyone wants to buy the books or take them off our hands at no charge, he is NOT included in the deal.

Only Laura

I wonder if there has ever been another mother who received a phone call quite like this one.
"Hello, Mrs. C., this is the school nurse.  Please, don't be concerned.  We don't think there will be any bad consequences, but the principal said I needed to call you and let you know what happened today.  (Pregnant pause)  Laura got her arm stuck in a soap dispenser."
Multiple images of how such a thing could happen flashed through my mind, but I didn't ask very many questions.  I listened to her side of the story and waited until the end of the school day for Laura's version.


The setting:
The middle school at that time was structured in the "open classroom" design.  Instead of walls partitioning off classrooms, there were groupings of desks with bookcases in between.  The entrance to the lavatories was visible from several classroom areas.  The toilets were in an enclosed area, but the sinks were out in the open and could be seen by these classrooms.  The sinks were round with water coming out in all directions, and the soap dispenser was large, round and in the middle of the sink.  It had small holes in the top.


The story:
Laura used the lavatory, and when she came out, she noticed a little girl standing at the sink and behaving in a distraught manner.   She had dropped her barrette in the soap dispenser and had no idea how to get it out.  Laura, who had an ADHD diagnosis, was very impulsive but also very compassionate.  The combination frequently got her into trouble.  That day was no exception.  The barrette was in the soap dispenser.  There were holes in the top of the soap dispenser.  Obvious and immediate conclusion, with no time out to consider consequences...plunge her arm through the hole to retrieve the poor, sad child's barrette.
Uh, oh....arm goes in the soap dispenser, but cannot be pulled out.
As Laura told it, the first teacher that passed by said, "Huh, I'm just going to leave you there!"
Eventually adults willing to help converged on the scene:  the principal, the vice-principal, the school nurse, assorted maintenance and janitorial staff.
They soaped up her arm.  
They greased her arm with petroleum jelly.
They attempted to dismantle the soap dispenser.
Finally a janitor very carefully slid a hack saw blade in between Laura's arm and the edge of the hole.  As gently as possible, he sawed outward until the top of the dispenser could be spread apart and Laura's arm released.  He successfully freed her without so much as a scratch.


The Aftermath:
A few weeks later, I ran into a friend.
"Laura, got her arm stuck in a soap dispenser, didn't she?"
"How did you know about that?"
"Oh, I was at a luncheon for hostesses for the Miss New York State pageant.  One of the other hostesses is a teacher at the middle school.  She told this hysterical story about a kid who got her arm caught in a soap dispenser, and when she said the girl's name was Laura....well, I knew who it had to be."


I thought I would get a bill for the damage to the soap dispenser, but I never did.  Almost 30 years have passed, so I guess they're not going to send one.

Invictus

"Out of the night that covers me, black as pit from pole to pole..." I don't ever expect that I will forget these words, no matter how long I live or how senile I become.

I first read Invictus by Ernest Henley when I was in ninth grade. I would have been 13 years old. My English teacher, Mrs. Beyers, not only had us read the poem, but promised extra credit if we would learn it and recite it in front of the class. I memorized easily and had no problem learning the words themselves. I did, however, run into big trouble with the meaning of the words. It was one thing to let the words drift through my mind. It was another thing to form those words with my mouth and utter them for others to hear. I recoiled at the image of those words coming out of my mouth.

"It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll." What??? Of course, it matters! Unless there is no God, no afterlife, no punishment or reward.

I knew then and know now, that there is no way to prove that God exists. But, there is also no way to prove that He doesn't exist. Maybe someone else is brave enough to shake his fist at the heavens, gambling that he is not shaking it in God's face. I am just not that big a risk taker.

I am not saying that I live in fear of a God who might or might not be there. I "know" from my personal experience that He is there, and that He desires to have a relationship with us, the people He has created. I do realize, however, that what I "know" and what I can prove by scientific method are two different things. Those who would tell me I can't prove He is there, cannot prove that He isn't there. I find it just plain foolish of them to take a chance on eternity.

"I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul." Oh, now, there's a great idea! Humanly speaking, I am plenty smart and plenty wise, but I am imperfect and I cannot see the future. I have no desire to be the master of my fate and the captain of my soul. I prefer to leave that in the hands of someone who is perfect and who can see the future. I do not believe in the "bludgeonings of chance."

The day came for the extra credit recitation. Mrs. Beyers asked if anyone had memorized the poem and was ready to recite it. No one offered. Then she looked right at me...I was probably trying so hard not to attract attention, that I attracted attention.

"You know it, don't you, Ruth?"

"Yes."

"Well, stand up and say it for us."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't believe what it says."

Brief silence..no argument...the class went on.

Years passed. I read following the execution of Timothy McVey that he had not spoken any final words, but had left a written message which included Invictus by Ernest Henley.

I grew up in western New York outside of Buffalo. Timothy McVey, executed for the Oklahoma City bombing, grew up in western New York, outside of Buffalo. I wondered had my English teacher and his English teacher been at the same conference and heard an expert suggest that students be asked to memorize that poem? What was it that emblazoned those words in his mind? Was it fascination?

For me, it was horror and deep sadness. I am sick with fear for the person who boldly speaks the words of Invictus. The image which come to my mind is Boris in the movie Goldeneye, who shouts "I am invincible" just as he is about to be flash-frozen by liquid nitrogen, which the viewer can see is already exploding behind him, as he makes his triumphant exclamation. It is hilarious in the movie, but not funny at all in reality.

She should be dying now.

I haven't written much in this blog about the fact that I am a nurse, and I don't know why this particular experience is on my mind today. It happened over 40 years ago.

I was a nursing student at a hospital in a major metropolitan area and nearing the end of the 3 years of "training," which is what nursing school was called in those ancient times. The education was inexpensive, because the students were slaves of the hospital. We really did earn our keep. There is no denying, however, that by the time the three grueling years were over, we were very well prepared.

I was assigned to take care of a women about 30 years old who had ulcerative colitis. She was married and the mother of two young children. I had watched her condition deteriorate over the several days since her admission. Her doctor who was a general practice physician had eventually called in an internist to consult, but it was not the internist on the staff who had the most experience in gastrointestinal disease. She continued to become more ill.

On a Sunday, a surgeon came in and saw her having also been asked to consult on her case. At this point the woman was desperately ill. I was convinced that her intestine had perforated, and that the only way to save her life was immediate surgery. The surgeon examined her. I made sure he was aware of her symptoms, but he was clearly not planning to take her to surgery. I wanted to jump up and down and scream at him, but it was a major faux pas to tell a physician his business. So, I played like I was just a curious student and tentatively inquired, "Dr. H, do you think there is any chance she is perforated?"

Dr. H who was a very prominent surgeon flippantly replied, "No...but go ahead and satisfy yourself. Order a flat plate of the abdomen."

Then to my horror, Dr. H. left and went out to play his Sunday round of golf.

I ordered the X-ray to be done in the room with portable equipment. It came back clearly showing a perforation of the intestine which would result in massive infection in the abdomen.

We couldn't get through to Dr. H on the links.

The patient died.

A husband was left without his wife.

Two little children were left without a mother.

I was left wondering why patients came from hundreds of miles around to have Dr. H operate on them.

She should not have died 40-some years ago. Today she would be in her 70s....a better time to die. She should have seen her children grow up. She should have been a grandmother.

Sometimes being a nurse is heart-breaking.

The Life of a Tree

In the mid-80s, my husband came home one Saturday with a tiny little slip of an evergreen tree. He had stopped at the local McDonalds, and they were giving the trees away with every cup of coffee.

We picked a spot near the back of the house, between it and the adjacent house, and planted the tree. It was so tiny, that my husband put a stake next to it, so that he wouldn't forget about it and mow it down when he cut the lawn.

In 1991 we had an ice storm. All of the tree branches were weighed down with a heavy coating of ice resulting in many limbs snapping off. By this time, the little evergreen was just a bit taller than our four-year-old son. He stared out the window at the drooping branches of the forlorn looking little tree. "I have to go out and help that tree," he declared.

He bundled up in jacket and boots and crunched through the ice to the tree. Carefully, gently, he reached up to the top of the tree and shook it, loosening the coat of ice. As the chunks and fragments fell to the ground, the branches of the tree popped back up into normal position.

In the late 90s, my mother had a stroke and was bed-ridden in our dining room. After her passing, my Dad lived with us in that room. During those years, the evergreen was right outside their window and a perfect height to be a Christmas tree. I strung it with lights and ran an extension cord through the nearest basement window, so that they could look out on some holiday cheer.

My parents are gone. My son is married and lives across the country. The tree soars upward. If I want to see the top of it now, I have to climb two flights of stairs and look out the window on the third floor of our old Victorian home.

We are moving this summer and will sell our house. Someone else may enjoy the tree, but not as much as I have.