Meri, Meri, Quite Contrary

Last week we visited with our daughter, son-in-law and two sweet granddaughters who live in Maine. The oldest girl, Meredith, also known as Meri, had her 4th birthday while we were there. I love all of my 8 grandchildren dearly, but I have to admit to being particularly amused by Meri. The primary cause of this being that I am afraid she has a large component of Grandma Ruthie genetic material. She is interested in and has something to say about absolutely everything. She is also a stubborn, take charge, let's get this done right personality...which I do recognize.

On Saturday, my son-in-law's sister was married in Connecticut. We tagged along with them in order to be helpful with the kids. When they got tired and squirrelly during the reception, we were there to take them to their other grandma and grandpa's house for a nap. Little Maddie (age 2 1/2) settled right down....but Meri....

Of course, being in a house and bed other than her own was not conducive to relaxing and allowing her weary self some rest. I laid down next to her thinking that I could get her to unwind by telling her some stories. She loves stories about when her mother was a little girl, or when grandma was a little girl. But, she was just way too interactive with my stories, asking question after question.

Finally after about half an hour, she asked, "Soooo....what are we going to do with me, since I am NOT going to go to sleep."

Stifling a loud guffawing belly laugh as best I could, I chuckled, "Oh, Meri, Meri, quite contrary."

To which she replied, "What does contrary mean?"

The kid has way too many Grandma Ruthie genes.

Advice on Dog Poop

What do you do when your kid won't even take your advice about dog poop?

Last night one of my daughters, Laura, called in quite an agitated state. Without coming up for a breath of air, she went from asking me questions, to drawing her own conclusions, and then paused long enough to hear what I had to say, before going straight into a rant of disagreement.

It seems that there is a fence between her property in the trailer park and the adjacent property. She wanted to know if it isn't true that when you put up a fence it has to be totally on your own property. Therefore, she assumes the land immediately over the fence would still be the property of the person who owns the fence.

She didn't pause long enough for me to say that in a trailer park, you don't really "own" the land. You own your trailer and technically "rent" the land, I think. I don't know for sure never having lived in a trailer park.

In any event, the woman at the adjacent trailer is throwing the poop from her dog over her fence into what Laura believes to be the other woman's strip of land, and therefore, the other woman's responsibility.

However, the neighbor says it is Laura's problem to clean up, even though Laura doesn't own a dog.

This would seem to be something for the manager of the trailer park to resolve, but Laura is not in good standing with the manager. Prior conversations have led me to believe that he perceives Laura as a troublemaker and would love for her to move out of the park.

So, I said, "Well, since it's your kids who are stepping in it, why don't you clean it up?"

You can imagine the response to that!

I continued, "What would happen if you just quietly and graciously cleaned it up every day?"

She was having none of that. She began to rant that she would contact legal aid today and find out what her rights are.

I asked just what that would accomplish. The person throwing the dog poop over the fence is obviously not a classy lady. She doesn't care about Laura's rights, and if Laura makes waves, she adds fuel to the park manager's fire that she is a troublemaker.

Sure, having to clean up the doggy-do is a lousy solution, but is there one that will likely have a better outcome for Laura?

She hung up rather abruptly.

So, what to do when your kid won't even take your advice about dog poop? Sigh.

Defining Moments

I guess most of us have pondered the "what-ifs" of life. Those times when something or someone nudges our lives in one direction rather than another. It is never possible to figure out what might have happened had the nudge been in the other direction.

When I was a young person, I lived in a rural area outside of Buffalo, NY. Throughout my junior and senior high years, I was selected to participate in the Erie County Chorus made up of students from schools all over the county.

I had a big, powerful soprano voice that could fill up a concert hall without a microphone. In the late 50s and early 60s that was essential if one wanted to sing a solo. Individual miking was just unheard of in that era.

One year the concert included a number with a soprano solo. The solo required a strong enough voice, not only to fill the room, but also to sing against the entire choir. I tried out for the part. I really loved the song and believed that I knew better than most teen girls how to interpret it. The theme was serious and moving.

After the try-outs, I went outside the school where the practices were occurring, to wait for the bus back to my home school. As I sat there, one of the music teachers who had judged the try-outs came out of the building, and paused on his way to the parking lot.

What he said went something like this: "I want you to know that you are not going to get the solo....but you should have. You were the only person who tried out who had a powerful enough voice to sing against the entire choir. The director has made a purely political decision. He wanted someone from his own school. The girl he has chosen won't be able to do it alone. He will end up putting others on the part with her."

I don't remember saying anything to him in response. I think I smiled and nodded, and he shrugged and walked away. I had the strangest feeling at that moment...as though I actually felt my life going in one direction rather than another. I didn't feel bitter, but sort of melancholy. Later, I did feel sad, because he was right....3 girls, all from the director's school, ended up trying to sing the solo part together in order to hold their own against the choir. They were, in my view, 3 silly air-headed girls, who had no idea what the words in the solo really meant, and no ability to draw on their very souls to interpret it

Still, I never felt angry. I believed that God had intervened to push me away from a career in music and toward something else. I will never know whether singing in that setting would have caused me to be "discovered" or mentored by someone who understood the music business, and it doesn't matter.

Throughout my life, music remained a form of expression of my most intense personal beliefs. In 2000, I developed a severe laryngitis at the same time I experienced a deep emotional wound. My singing voice has been totally unreliable since. The ENT doctor didn't know if the laryngitis was to blame or whether the inherited neurological tremor I have developed was impacting my vocal chords. He was adamant that it was physiological and not psychogenic, but I feel as though the connection that existed between my voice and my very soul was broken by the terrible hurt I felt...do wounds inflicted by our "friends" ever heal?

Once my voice soared out into the air and rose to heights propelled by an indescribable joy in my spirit. Now sometimes I feel as though a bird with broken wings is flopping around in the core of myself.

When I get to heaven, I expect the wound to be healed, and I will stand on a street corner and sing for eternity.

Of Childhood Treasures

On Monday I attended a little brunch get-together with some ladies, in order to visit with a friend who was in town. She lives in NYC and comes up to the North Country once a year. We enjoyed great food in a lovely setting with lively conversation.

One of the ladies who still has young children was detailing her plans to take her daughter to NYC to visit the American Girl Doll Shop. Apparently a day long visit costs $230, but you get part of the money back to spend at the shop. The doll visits a "spa" at the shop and has her hair done, etc. The visit includes a "photo shoot" with girl and doll resulting in a magazine cover style photo.

One of the other ladies of my vintage and I got talking about our childhood dolls. We both had baby dolls, with cloth bodies and hard plastic limbs. They had a small hole in the mouth where a bottle could be inserted, but of course, there was nothing in the bottle. If you were lucky you might have a doll whose eyes open and shut.

As a preschooler, my favorite doll was of that type. I named her Becky, and I loved her dearly. I actually acquired her by theft. A neighbor who was a grandmother had toys for her grandchildren when they visited. Among them was a beat up old doll that for reasons no one else understood, I fell in love with. I didn't think I was stealing her, because I left my beautiful new doll in her place. My mother, however, viewed it as a crime. She tried to make me take her back with an apology and retrieve my nice new doll. The neighbor said that if I loved the doll so much, I should be able to keep her. Becky was my favorite, but being second-hand when I acquired her, she eventually became dirty and her insides began to fall out. My mother deemed her a health hazard and threw her away. The story goes that I dug her out of the trash 3 times, and my parents finally dismembered her and threw her away in pieces.

One of the ladies at the brunch who knew my mother in later years could not believe my sweet dear mother would have dismembered and discarded my doll. But, it was my mother herself who told me the story. I don't remember it, or the tears I expect I must have shed.

I do remember that I had a stuffed Scotty dog, who slept with me every night into my teen years. He had a little plaid tam on his head and a music box in his stomach. When the metal edge of the box started wearing through the fabric and his stuffing began falling out, I decided to take action. Perhaps, I subconsciously remembered my Becky being thrown out when she got excessively shabby. I carefully slit the hole big enough to slide the music box out, stuffed the hole with cotton and sewed him up.

Scotty and I are now over 60. I don't sleep with him anymore and haven't in a very long time. His hat is long gone, but he sits in my bedroom and still has both of his red button eyes.

Safe Passage

Eleven years ago right now, I was in the throes of one of the more difficult periods of my life.

Starting at the very beginning of 1998, my mother had a series of health problems, including a heart attack in June and a stroke in the first week of July. The stroke left her paralyzed on her right side, unable to do anything for herself, and unable to speak coherently. She lost her ability to do a sequence of activities, so she could not even feed herself. She could say phrases that one might say on auto-pilot....such as, "Hi, how are you?" ....but not carry on anything resembling a conversation.

When it came time for her to leave the hospital, we had a very difficult decision to make. The idea of sending her to a nursing home was truly repugnant. My Mother placed tremendous value on family life. I couldn't imagine relegating her to an institution. On the other hand, being a nurse, I knew exactly what I was in for if I took her home. It wasn't just the unending work of taking care of her 24/7 that was overwhelming. It was also the fact that my father would be hovering around, and my Dad was NOT an easy person to get along with. I knew there would be times of conflict with him.

But, I decided to live one day at a time...just looking for strength for that day, and leaving the big picture to God.

We cleaned out the dining room, brought in a hospital bed for Mom and a twin bed for Dad, and embarked on a journey without knowing how long it would be. We arranged for caregivers to come in daily to bathe her, change the bed and irrigate the catheter....not because I couldn't do it, but because it was something that someone else could do, relieving me for a couple of hours.

At first, Dad insisted he would be the "night nurse," but this wore him down. He became really irritable, and obviously needed to sleep at night. I could not be up every night, and I finally had to sit him down and insist that we hire someone at night.

At this point in my life, I had 3 grown daughters, 2 of whom were in bad marriages, although at the time, I only knew that one of them was. I already had 3 grandchildren. When September came, I resumed home-schooling our 11 year old son, and I was trying to keep up with responsibilities at church. In other words, I was exhausted and stressed. I had no time for a life of my own. I remember one day feeding Mom her lunch. I was carefully spooning in one teaspoon of tomato soup at a time and watching her slowly swallow. I was thinking, "My life is disappearing one teaspoonful of tomato soup at a time." I wasn't really feeling sorry for myself. It just seemed to be a way to visualize a truth I had to accept.

By the grace of God, this nightmare only lasted 5 months. By the time the end came, I actually wanted my Mother to die. I knew she was suffering, in spite of pain medication. I was doing everything I could to make her comfortable, but I couldn't take the agony away. During the last few days, her leg became gangrenous. First there was a black spot on her toe, then the entire toe became a ghastly blue-gray. Every time I turned her, the discoloration had crept further up the leg. When she died it was nearly to her knee. It was two days before Christmas and snowing.

I hated the thought of the funeral director packing her in a black body bag and taking her out in the cold. Such a trivial thing perhaps, but I was so comforted that the body bag was blue corduroy. Blue was her favorite color.

Many months passed before my thoughts of my Mother were of happier times. At first, I could only think of her pain and frustration, and how little I could do to alleviate it. I knew she never wanted to be dependent. I was relieved that she had gone to a place free of suffering. Eventually I began to remember all the years of fun and loving interactions....all the things about her that I appreciated. I had not been able to prevent her having to walk through that dark valley of pain, but I had not surrendered her to someone else. I had walked up to the gate of death with her, holding her hand until God grasped it. I still have moments when tears come to my eyes, and I think of those last months of her life. Then I say to myself, "Safe passage...it's OK...you gave her safe passage."

Ready to Fold

I got thinking today about an incident that happened several years ago, that some of my readers might find amusing.

I completed a major grocery shopping and the clerk said, "That comes to ninty-three dollars and sixty-seven cents."

As I began to write out the check, I heard a masculine voice behind me say loudly, "Ninty-three dollars and sixty-seven cents!"

A quick sideways glance revealed an obviously intoxicated shopper in line behind me. I didn't want to become engaged in conversation, so I ignored him.

He, however, was not to be ignored. He said, even more loudly, "Ninty-three dollars and sixty-seven cents!"

I turned slightly, not making direct eye contact and trying to concentrate on writing the check, and said, "I'm getting ready for company."

"Ha! I don't care if the Queen of England was coming for dinner. I wouldn't pay ninty-three dollars and sixty-seven cents!"

Hoping to put a damper on the discussion, I said quietly, "Well, I have a son with severe food allergies, so I buy some products that are sort of expensive."

Still loudly, but with a tone of understanding, he replied, "Now I know what you mean! I have allergies myself."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I can't eat a bit of food without some of this." He patted the case of 24 cans of beer which was on the conveyor belt.

By this time customers in adjacent lanes in each direction were watching with amusement.

"Hmmm....I'm not a very good person to talk to about that," I said. "I'm a total abstainer."

With utter consternation, he responded, "Total abstainer? Total abstainer?"

Obviously such a possibility had never occurred to him.

"Yup...I don't drink at all...not ever."

"Oh, lady, don't you know how good it is for your cholesterol? My doctor says that I have the lowest cholesterol in the county!"

"Really....what does your doctor say about your liver?"

"Ready to fold...."

I think everyone in earshot was laughing at this point.

Thankfully my check was written, and I escaped. I have no idea what he had to say after I left, but sometimes even going to the grocery store is an adventure.

Observations on bugs

I spent the day painting at the cottage. Most of the time, I worked on the back and sides, while my husband painted the front. He had a number of conversations during the day with other cottagers who walked by and commented on our project. I, on the other hand, mostly communed with the bugs.
The cottage is in a wooded area, so there are lots of 6-legged and 8-legged creatures about. If 24 hours elapse between coats of paint, it is necessary to wipe the area clean of spider webs before applying the next coat.
The morning began with a pesky mosquito repeatedly going for my jugular....and I mean that literally. The cottage is cream with dark green trim. Since I had dark green on my brush, and most of the paint in the area was cream, there was no possibility of swatting the annoying insect with the paint brush. He made several attempts at venipuncture, before I managed to annihilate him without splattering the dark green on the cream.
Ants seem to be clueless when it comes to paint. They walk right into the wet stuff or explore the can itself which is a dead end for them.
Daddy long-legs are, however, quite amazing. They travel up the wall extending one leg gingerly ahead of the others. The very first time an appendage touches an area that is still wet, they stop and change directions. If they run into paint in the new direction, they stop and redirect again.
I encountered one spider who saw the brush coming and ducked into a crack behind a window frame. He peeked out, but the brush was still swishing near his den, so he retreated.
By the end of the day, the mosquitos no longer bothered me. However, apparently I had "ripened" as the day progressed...it was a scorcher and I was pretty much drenched in perspiration...so I ended the day bothered by flies.
Thank goodness, we put a hot water heater and shower in this year!