In the Rose Garden

In the rose garden,

Her pudgy baby hand,

Reaches for the blossom.

I hold her carefully,

Away from the thorns.

The blossom is delicate,

The fragrance intoxicating,

I want her to know them,

But I keep her,

Away from the thorns.

As long as I can,

I will shield and protect,

But someday my back will be turned,

Or she will walk away,

And reach for the thorns.

Know this, my precious child,

Prayers from my soul

Waft upward daily

As does the fragrance of the rose

Beyond the thorns.

I will try to pass to you,

The protecting shield

Use it yourself and pass it on

To tender hands and hearts

That may one day reach for thorns.

As I watch you grow and bloom,

I will fade like the rose petals,

But here is my wish for you…

May your future always hold,

More blossoms than thorns.

Old Men and I

When I took my car to the garage for an oil change and state inspection, I settled myself at a table in the lounge area and pulled out some embroidery to work on.  I had only been there a few minutes when an older gentleman came in to get his car washed.  He wandered my way and looked at me a bit hesitantly.  I smiled.  He acted like he was going to sit at the adjacent table, but then inquired whether I would mind if he sat with me.  I assured him it was fine.

Over the next 30-40 minutes, we had a pleasant chat about a wide range of subjects.  He is a widower and is obviously lonely.  He asked questions about my embroidery and informed me that he himself crochets.  It gives him something to do in the evenings when he is by himself, and there is nothing on television he wants to watch.  He lost his wife of 59 years about a year ago.  We talked about grandkids, carpentry, refinishing furniture, canoes, sewing, learning to cook, and a number of other topics.

Since he was only there to get his car washed, his vehicle was ready before mine.   One of the carwash techs came in, got him, and escorted him to his car.  A few minutes later, the carwash tech returned to the lounge laughing and came over to where I was seated.

“I almost gave you away,” he said.

I had no idea what he meant.

He continued, “I just asked that guy if he wanted me to come in here and get his wife, and he told me, ‘That’s not my wife!  She’s taken!’”

He was nearly doubled over in laughter.

I said, “Well, he was obviously lonely, and I didn’t mind talking to him, but when I get into a situation like that I find a way to drop the fact that I am married into the conversation.”

“Well,” he said, “He got the picture.”

The young carwash tech apparently found it highly amusing that a man in the vicinity of 80 years old would make an effort to get acquainted with a woman about 70 and would take note of her availability status.

I actually enjoyed spending some time with the old guy and didn’t feel as though I was being “hit on.”  I have had some experiences in which I clearly was being pursued by older men. Those situations came about because of my job.  In two such incident, I was being asked for a dinner date.  One guy took ‘no’ for an answer when he found out I was married, but the other didn’t.  He kept coming back to the booth I was manning, and when I told him I was married, he said, “Sometimes thing change.”  I couldn’t wait to get out of there, especially since he hung around and watched me pack up my car.

When I was young, I dated very little and didn’t think that men my age found me attractive.  But, old men sometimes told me what a wonderful wife I was going to make for someone.  Things changed a bit after I hit 21.  My husband did have some competition. 

I find it amusing though, when men my age are obviously wondering if I am available.  This is not something I expected to encounter as a “senior.”  My husband tells me that when he was a young man, he never expected he would someday be attracted to “an old broad.”  However, I figured the odds were in my favor on that score, as I watched him as a young man charm older ladies with his sly smile and twinkly blue eyes.

And…

It turns out that now that I am age appropriate, I like old men….especially the one with those twinkly blue eyes.

Unlikely Trio

We had nothing in common but our ages, and the fact that circumstances put us in the same place at the same time.

I was a student nurse at a hospital in the Chicago area. I was about 19 at the time.  I was an excellent student, smart and serious about my studies.  I had many friends, some of whom were male, but no boyfriends.  I may have had one date in my life at that point.  That would have been with the guy with whom I remained good friends, but who had declared that I was too much for him to handle.  I had a very quick mind and an assertive personality, although I was lacking in self-confidence in some areas. I was a bit overweight and did not consider myself attractive.

One of my patients that morning was extremely attractive.  He was a year or two younger than me with a well-muscled physique.  His facial features were chiseled and nicely symmetric.  Blond hair and blue eyes completed the picture.  But, his lovely athletic body had betrayed him.  A brain tumor caused him to be immobile.  He did not speak.  His beautiful blue eyes were not vacant.  He was still in there, but there was an expression in his eyes of confusion, fear and anxiety, as though he wanted to cry out, “Help me!  Please help me.”  But, he remained mute.

The third member of the party was an orderly.  I needed his help to hold the patient on his side so that I could wash and rub his back and change the sheets.  The orderly was also about my age….maybe a year or two older.  He had dark hair, nondescript features, some flaws in his complexion, and he was a bit pudgy.  I was fairly certain that he did not have a lively mind.

We were in the corner of a ward with multiple patients, which was at the intersection of the two hallways on the unit.  The nurses’ station was right at that intersection, so it was a hub of activity.  If the patient had been on his left side, with the door open and curtain pulled back, he would have seen people going by constantly.  Since we were giving care, the curtain around his bed was pulled shut, and the three of us were in this small private space.

And there in that private space with the intimacy of both the orderly’s hands and my hands on the young man’s helpless body, the orderly asked me for a date…..right over the patient…as though he was an object and had no feelings.

Doing so was way beyond unprofessional.  I wanted to scream at him that he was an insensitive jerk.  How dare he?!  Between us was a young man who would never again ask a girl for a date.  He would never kiss a girl or hold someone he loved in his arms.  He was dying.  I did not tell the orderly he was an insensitive jerk.  I quietly told him ‘no.’

Later I wondered if he was actually evil.  Did he purposely want to taunt a young man with whom he could not compare?  If the patient had been healthy, and the two of them had stood side by side, there is no way any female would have chosen the orderly over the patient.  Was he trying to rub in the fact that he was on his feet and able to ask for a date?  Or, was he just an idiot?  In any event, I was not desperate enough for a date to consider going out with someone who cared so little for the feelings of another.

So what was the outcome of the intersection of our three lives?  I’m certain the patient must have died within weeks.  The orderly probably didn’t learn a single thing and would have repeated his awful performance given the chance.  I have remembered that painful moment with sadness for over 50 years.

Bad Combinations

Procrastination and a bad memory

Facebook and a person who needs constant validation

Orange juice after mint toothpaste

Friendship and the inability to keep a secret

A sleepless night and a long “to do” list

Super glue and a hand tremor

My "Rosary" Ring

I am not Catholic, but I understand that rosary beads are used by Catholics as a guide to prayer.  Each bead represents a prayer.  I have my own version of “rosary beads,” and it is a ring.

About 20 years ago, my children gave me a ring with each of their birthstones in it.  The ring was configured to allow for additional stones to be added.  A few years ago when the ring needed to be re-sized for my aging knuckles, I decided to have the birthstones of my grandchildren added.  There were 8 at that point, so four stones were added on each side of the original four which represented my children.  Last year, a ninth grandchild was born, and a stone was added on the side to represent her.  I have room for 3 more stones before I have to get a new ring with more spaces.

Since adding the birthstones of grandchildren, I have been using my ring as a prayer reminder, and calling it my “rosary ring.”  When I look down at my hand, I am reminded to pray for my family.  Sometimes I run a finger of the opposite hand over the ring and ask God to bless my family in a general way.  More often, I look at each stone individually and pray for the person it represents.

In Isaiah 49:14-16, Israel thinks that God has forgotten her, but through the prophet, He says, Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne?  Though she may forget, I will not forget you!  See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands….”

Could a mother and grandmother forget her family?  Possibly…not likely, but possibly.  I suppose I could become senile and not have any idea what my ring represents.

But, God will not forget those He loves.  They are not just on a ring, but engraved on His palms.

Beached

In the sand just above the lapping waves,

It lies helpless,

A lifeless gelatinous mass.

Cast on the shore motionless and dying,

Unable to crawl

Back into the nurturing brine.

Floating in the depths, it had stingers

Hidden in its translucency,

A way to protect itself.

On the beach it is defenseless

Quiet and senseless.

The embodiment of vulnerability.

I once lay on the edge above the waves

Of the life-giving sea,

Afraid to move back toward it.

Accused of using my stingers,

My past was with gossip

Dredged up altered and rewritten.

I lay motionless, vulnerable, in need.

Knowing I must

Return to the nurture of the sea.

Aware that the saltiness would cause pain

In my open wounds,

I inched back embracing it.

I could not, would not remain beached.

Life itself could be lost,

By avoiding the depths.

To bask in its warmth and buoyancy,

I needed to crawl back

Into a different part of the ocean.

The jellyfish died…..I lived.

Cataclysmic Events

Living in upstate New York, I rarely think about the slow-paced glacial retreat that influenced the landscape surrounding me.  However, every time I visit the Rocky Mountains, I am overwhelmed by the cataclysm that must have occurred in order for them to exist.  I wonder if people living here ever mentally strip away the snow and evergreens and look at the outline of the peaks with the obvious fingers of once flowing lava that brought about these massive shapes.

I picture what it would have been like to watch….from a safe distance in space, of course…as the earth spewed out its molten interior by either projectile vomiting or gradual oozing.  What awesome power was required to force the mountains to such amazing heights?

I imagine a divine conductor waving his baton and thunderous orchestration accompanying the fireworks….sort of like cannon accompaniment in the 1812 Overture, only infinitely louder and grander.  A sweep of the baton producing a gigantic plume of yellow and orange with a rumble followed by an eardrum shattering BOOM!

But today, out the window I can see white ribbons of sunlit snow wandering through the dark evergreens.  Skiers and snowboarders gracefully fly down the solidified once molten fingers with no thought to the unimaginable power contained by the fragile crust on which we dwell.