We interrupt this program.....

Aunt Tolli say's I exaggerate in my blogs about her and Alice. I think she's defending her actions at Hoover Dam by accusing me of fancying up the story. Either way I'm delighted she read about herself online. It was at the occasion of her 80th birthday and she cornered me by the buffet line. Shaking her finger at me she managed to keep a straight face for at least 30 second.

Baron Von Munchausen said: I pity anyone who doubts my veracity.

I think I agree.

mushrooms and toadstools

It's been a while since I wrote anything in here. I have a lot of catching up to do as it's been a very busy month. But I want to tell you about Davina's neices, Faith & Grace. These beautiful babies were born about the same time Popi-Da was exiting this earthly plane. He would have been pleased with the timing. They are beautiful little girls now, 3 years old. Their parents, Travis and Heather, are young enough to keep up with them. Truth is when you first meet them you wonder how in the world these kids can hold anything together. But it doesn't take you long to figure out they know more about marriage and parenting than some people ever learn. I'm off on a tangent here so shall return to the story.

Spring time in the Midwest means mushroom hunting time. From the prized Morel's that everyone looks for to the more common fungi that flavors stew pots. Mushroom hunting is a typical topic in a lot of families. This one being no exception. My particular fave is those who harness pigs to sniff out the morel's. Seems pigs are as fond of them as humans. I'm sure Grace & Faith had heard their share of mushroom stories. In fact, based on what happened next I'd guarantee it.

The girls were spending the day at the babysitter's house. She also has a young girl about the same age. While in the fenced in back yard there must have been some discussion about how to find them. I'm told the baby sitter's daughter pointed out some mushrooms on the other side of the fence from them. 3 year old arms are thin enough to reach through a chain link fence and the girls harvested some for themselves. We don't know how much they actually ate. What we do know is that they weren't mushrooms, they were toadstools and that everyone got pretty sick that day.

To her credit the baby sitter took everyone to the hospital and no one was seriously ill. The twins spent the night in the hospital and were released the next day. All adults concerned were flustered (including those only aware of the events by phone calls). The girls seemed to enjoy the extra attention once they got past the blood tests. I've been told that toadstools can be poisonous. I'm sure that's why they all had to be checked.

Everyone is fine now with a brand new story to add to their memory chests. We keep thinking "someday this will all be funny" but it's going to take a while for the poor baby sitter to get over.

guitar man

MyJohn collects guitars. Serious guitars. Boutique guitars as he calls them. That means one of a kind, special made, above the rest. Definately not mass produced. We've been organizing his condo into a more rational layout. Rational layout defined by me, of course. The guitars have been pulled out from all corners and stacked neatly on a shelf. They're easier for him to get too and play and they aren't underfoot this way. Each one is different according to John. I get the visuals, the "rootbeer strat" and the "cherry burst strat" looks different despite them both being strat's. That's Stratacaster to those of you guitar challenged. What excites John is that they sound differently. He says. I think it takes a discerning ear frankly. A g note played on one sounds the same as a g note played on the other. Right? But oh these guitars make him happy. Each time we arrange a guitar on the shelf it is removed from it's case and played for a while. John's fingers fly up and down the neck picking out notes. Sometimes he slides them along the string for a raspy sound, other times he flicks the string to create harmonic's. All of the time he grins blissfully. The last one he brought out for organizing is a double necked guitar. It's body is a shiny black with glitter shot all through it. John's grin reached new dimensions as he sat down to play this one. I took several pictures of him with it and was pleased with the way the glitter reflected. For his part, John could have been out in a field all alone or on a concert stage. Playing that guitar made him very happy. It was fun to watch.
The congenitally blind people I know don't have much facial expression. They rarely smile and when they do it is often contrived and gruesome. I think smiling is somewhat universal though so when John is happy he does smile. He's got dimples. I think that's cute. I kind of think he's cute, but could be prejudiced. He's myJohn. I sure am glad of that.

We interrupt this program...

I awoke this morning to snow. Snow on the ground and more falling. It is April 7th fer crying out loud. How did this happen? Note to Al Gore: Global warming? Snow in DC, snow on the cherry blossoms, snow on the streets. Despite being warned repeatedly by my Mother I did not bring a jacket with me. I wasn't expecting snow. A few chilly days maybe but nothing like this. I'm afraid my trip to DC has been darn near disastrous. I'm delighted to see MyJohn, more on that later. I developed a life threatening toothache. Meaning I thought I was going to die. That old poison peanut butter hasn't entirely left my system and the residue is creating havoc with me and oh yeah, did I mention it snowed? Sheesh.

Kathy made me do it.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. She and I went to lunch one day at "The Saddle Ranch" chop house. They have a mechanical bull in an arena. For some reason everyone was super nice to us that day. They let us ride the bull for free. Kathy was all excited about riding this thing and sort of guilted me into it. If she was going to do it, I knew I had to do it too and yes I would jump off the cliff if everyone else was doing that. Kathy went first; she looked terrified the entire time the bull was moving. She went up and down once than began to holler for them to stop and let her off. They take pictures of you as you ride and her's are super funny cause she clearly is scared to death.
I found getting on the bull as big of a challenge as riding it. You walk across this puffy air mattress to the bull in the center. I thought it would be easier to walk if I took giant steps. I think it took me 3 of them to get there. At this time I looked to Kathy for support and noticed she was doubled over and having trouble breathing. She didn't look the least bit concerned. Now these mechanical bulls are a lot taller in person than they look on the movies. My cowboy kneeled down in the classic "will you marry me pose". He told me to step on his leg then throw my leg over the bull. I asked him if there was a weight limit on that thing. He said no, it will take some really big guys. In hindsight, I think he was talking about the bull. I was talking about his leg. So I stepped on his proffered knee and tried to sling my other leg over the bull. His knee sank into the air mattress right at the critical moment. I didn't get my leg all the way over. I now know how Spiderman does it. I found myself clinging to the side of that thing and praying for a boost. The cowboy jumped up and gave me a shove so I ended up on top of it. Unfortunately, I was also about 1/2 inch from sliding off the rear. They're a bit like a teeter totter so when I sat on the back, the front popped up.
Kathy shouted encouragement from the sidelines. Something to the effect of "oh my God, your killing me". The cowboy shouted at me to scoot up. Scoot up? I was clutching this thing with my legs so I wouldn't fall off. Scooting up meant performing a miracle of levitation. I had to scoot forward and quite literally, up.
I thought I'd use my arm muscles to pull myself forward. Since the front end of the bull was close to smacking me in the nose I just leaned into it and wrapped my arms around the part where his neck shoulda been. As I struggled to pull myself up, my cowboy had managed to stop laughing long enough to get behind me and push. With one hand on each buttock he gave a mighty heave and I was in the saddle.
I didn't even look at Kathy at this point as she was making these funny queeping noises. I was pretty sure those weren't sympathy sounds. She told me later she laughed so hard she thought she was going to hurt herself.
The cowboy returns to his post at the controls. I grab the handle, throw my arm in the air in the professional bull riders pose and hope for the best. I'm sure I made the 8 seconds, I think it was closer to 2 hours before I was finally unseated. They take a series of photo's of you as you ride. Mine shows a great picture of my smiling face and even has my arm thrown back. But I was minus the top of my head. Really from the middle of my nose up was missing by the automatic border. The next one has me from the side, then there is the pose I put on this blog, (bummer that it's blurry) and the final shot is an empty bull with my shoe oddly stuck in the air off to the side.
That's right, I got thrown. Nothing hurts! I think that's nothing short of miraculous. You know how cats always land on their feet? Well I always end up on my back. As I struggled to my feet on the air mattress the sounds of applause, hoots and cat calls filled the air. I had drawn a crowd. I guess they aren't used to seeing someone ride with such penache. I can hardly wait to do it again. I'm hooked now.
Yippie Ki Yo Ki Yeah. Get along little doggies.

We interrupt this program

My Grand-Mother gave my Mother a start off her lilac bush 40+ years ago. Today I looked at all the fat buds ready to burst forth and it made me realize Spring really is here. Forsythia bushes in full bloom, spiraea, jonquils, tulips, daffodils and hyacinth's herald the rebirth of our planet. Spring is beautiful in the Mid-West. The warm breezes dance across my cheek and the pull is strong within me. It will be good to travel to DC. That wind blows and I want to go with it. My Mother sit's beside me playing free cell on the computer. 40 years in one place is an eternity to me. What I see as a death of spirit she see's as security. Hard to believe I came from that body.

I like the java jive and it likes me.

Popi-Da had his first brain tumor removed when he was 47 years old. It's hard to comprehend the devastating ripples from that one drop of information into the pool of our life. He was my Father, he was also one of my best friends. 35 years ago a diagnosis of brain tumor was pretty much a death sentence. You don't have a lot of choices left to you when you hear those words. It reduces you to a secret, primal place where you grasp at anything to hold onto. Anything solid will do, even if it's the floor after you've sat down hard.
We all turned to him to lead us through this maze. Somehow an upspoken decision was made to use one of his greatest strengths to our advantage. His sense of humor kept him alive years beyond what the doctor's anticipated. In fact, he outlived several of them! More surgeries were to follow along with cobalt (radiation) treatments. It was like his entire body was in revolt against itself. He grew weird things on his skin. His gall bladder died and turned gangrenous. I think I butchered the spelling on that one. He lost a saliva gland and another one behind his knee. I wish we had kept a journal or something to guide us down memory lane.
Tumors, skin growths, weird changes internally aside what finally felled him was a surprise. He had a hole in his heart that had gone undetected his whole life. It announced itself by throwing clots into his brain and finally into his lungs. The journey down was slow and uneasy for everyone. But this isn't about the sorrow, it's about the joy.
After one fairly spectacular stroke he was placed in a rehabilitation center for recovery and retraining. Alice would stay with him during the day then leave in the evening to go to work. I would work days then drive 45 minutes to spend the evenings with him. Rehab centers end up being an extended family for those who stay more than a month. Most people who find themselves in one, do stay much more than a month. So I got to know everyone's name and followed their progress with their families. Success is hard fought here, milimeters at a time. There is rarely any kind of huge breakthrough with brain injury. Learning to raise a spoon to your mouth is cause for celebration.
Because I was there every evening I quickly became a part of the normal meal time routine. I helped seat patients, tied on bibs, cut up meat, told rotten jokes, wiped up spills, I fed the ones who couldn't feed themselves and gently helped those who were trying to eat by themselves. Often times putting the same green bean on the fork over and over until it actually got into a mouth.
One evening I was met by an exhausted staff who had 2 new patients, one of which hooted the words "help me" every ten seconds. Dinner was late and the volunteer's didn't show up and would I mind making the coffee?
I told them I don't drink coffee and have no idea how to make it. The nurse said the instructions are inside the lid of the coffee can and to use the biggest coffee pot they have. Well I can follow instructions so off I went to the dining room to make the coffee. The note inside the lid said to add 8 cups of coffee to the largest pot, filling it to the top line. Plug it in and wait for it to do it's thing.
It seemed a bit extreme to me and I had trouble fitting 8 cups of coffee into that little tray and filter but once it got wet it tamped down and I could get more in. Coffee made I went about setting the table's, Popi-Da helping me pull chairs around for those who could still walk. With the two of us working as a team, the place was looking good by the time the other patients started arriving.
I got them seated, collected their trays, opened butter packets, and what idiot sends milk in a cardboard carton to a brain damaged person who can't make his hands work? I poured the coffee and we all started eating. I noticed a few startled looks from the folks, but thought it might be in response to my new Hawaiian shirt with the hula dancers I had worn for fun. Mrs Bass, a lovely lovely woman started foaming at the mouth a bit. That alarmed me as she is normally so serene and beautiful. looking around I saw all the coffee drinkers acting odd. Then it hit me, 8 cups couldn't be right. I went back to the coffee pot and checked under the lid and sure enough, it said 8 small cups of coffee.
Popi-Da tasted the evil brew and almost gagged on it. He fished around in the coffee can and brought out a perfect little scoop and pantomined scooping coffee with it. Lord help us all, I had dug through the cabinets until I found a one cup measure. I thought 8 small cups meant level, not heaping.
An injured brain can't always tell you what's wrong, nor can it accurately taste. A good deal of the 20 or so patients had faithfully drank enough to create havoc with their systems. I got a nurse and showed her what the problem is and she wasn't especially comforting about it. You'd have thought I did it on purpose by her reaction.
I was told the next day that the night shift was ready to hang, draw, and quarter me. The normally placid patients were up all night out in the halls, talking when possible, getting into stuff and creating chaos in their wake. The new patient had stopped hooting "help me" after drinking his cup so there was at least some salvation at hand. Needless to say it was the last time anyone asked me to make coffee. Can't say as I blame them.
Popi-Da slept through it. His roomie's wife was called in though as her hubby was hollering for her. I'm just like my Dad, I can sleep through just about anything. Sometimes that's a blessing.