Peach Pie Thoughts

It occurred to me this morning as I devoured my SECOND piece of fresh-from-the-oven pie that I would be very roly-poly were I living in a more temperate climate.  You see, today began cool and crisp and fall-like and everything in me was ready to bake.  Because we had just purchased peaches from a local farmer, I made peach pie.  Had it been like it was in July -- hot and humid -- I would never even think, much less, feel such a thing.  My need to be in the kitchen begins and ends with cool temperatures so ever since I noticed the small signs of fall, I've been thinking soups, stews, chili.  Add to such thoughts, pumpkin pie, home-made bread, and Christmas cookies.  Is it a wonder that I manage to gain weight in the fall and winter and then have to work it off during late spring and summer?  So as the last fragrance of cinnamon and peaches wafts through the house and I sit here, my tummy full and my senses gratified, I'm hoping for Indian summer and if that doesn't happen, a good dose of self-discipline.

Good Advice

"Once during the day, think of who you are as living energy and not as a goal to be achieved or an obstacle to be overcome.  Feel yourself without inventory."  THE BOOK OF AWAKENING by Mark Nepo

Hmmm.  "Feel youself without inventory."  Once again this book, a gift from a sister-in-law, has me thinking.  Just what does he mean when he says, "Feel yourself without inventory"?  It's a phrase loaded with potential for discovery.  It didn't take me long to acknowledge that I am perpetually taking inventory of myself.  I live a "should" existence.  I should clean the house.  I should read this book.  I should call my mother.  I should contact my friend.  I should exercise more.  I should volunteer more.  I should eat healthy.  I should drink more water.  I should, I should, I should....  I've lived my life shoulding myself all over the place and as a result I have carried a lot of guilt along the way.

I also spend a lot of time judging myself, another kind of inventory.  Did I do my job well?  Am I a good student, teacher, friend, principal, wife, mother, person?  Have I served a purpose with my existence?  Again, the answers to these kinds of questions creates guilt as I almost always fall short of my own expectations.

And daily I take stock of my physical self.  I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles, the blemishes, the gray hair, the muffin top.  I stand on the scales and can't deny that I am not at my desired weight.  So what that it's only five pounds over, it's not good enough. 

Not good enough.  Now there's a phrase.  Not that long ago I went to see a therapist because the issues I was dealing with at the time, I could not resolve on my own.  I was caught in circular thinking and I needed someone to hear me and guide me to some kind of resolution.  She didn't exactly do that but what she did do was insightful.  She asked questions.   Pointed, directed, essential questions that forced me to look more carefully at some of the baggage I had been carrying around during my lifetime.  Some of that baggage, perhaps the heaviest, can be summed up in the phrase "not good enough".  I wasn't good enough for my father to not question now and again whether I was really his daughter.  I internalized that conclusion and thus found it easy to believe I wasn't good enough for others in my life.  I wasn't good enough for myself.  While it did result in my working harder to prove otherwise, no matter what I achieved or what accolades I received, in my own eyes I was never good enough.  The therapist didn't tell me what to do but acknowledging the power I had been letting "not good enough" exercise in my living led me to the resolution I sought.

And so being told to think of myself "as living energy and not as a goal to be achieved or an obstacle to be overcome, to feel myself without inventory", well, I find I like that concept.  It's worth experiencing.  If I can achieve that, I'm pretty sure I'll be happier, freer, and able to experience life more fully.  It's never too late to take good advice.

Live Out Loud

I've been thinking about my daily reading for August 12th, titled "To Live Out Loud".  I liked the phrase as soon as I read it.  It just sounds healthy and free and right.  But then, I read the entry and what at first seemed a simple, joyous concept became much more complex and more difficult.  Think about it.  What does it mean to live out loud?

Why do children laugh and cry with abandon?  They don't think about how others will react.  They just feel and express that in the moment through sound or word or action.  Adults, on the other hand, self censor.  Expressing what you feel, whether it be joy, disgust, sorrow, or contentment, makes you stand out, draw attention.  Most of us are uncomfortable with that.  So we either keep our thoughts and feelings to ourselves or we compose our expression of them to fit the audience and our own need to fit in or worse, to be invisible.  Thus, we dilute both and become disingenuous.  The more we confine our real selves, the more we modify ourselves to blend, the less we know ourselves.  We lose touch with our soul and become less real.  I can't remember the last time I cried or laughed freely.  I mean really freely, with abandon.  My first thought is that I can't imagine the vulnerability I would experience were I to do so.  But now I find myself hoping for a time when I can do both because now I can't imagine how empowered and invulnerable I would be.

Living out loud, I think, is allowing ourselves to not only feel but to express what we feel by word, by laughter, by sighs, by action, by whatever is real in its generation and expression.  Living out loud is to be real to yourself and to others without regard for what others think.  It's clear to me now that living out loud would be a gift to both myself and to those around me.  What do you think?

Small Signs

This morning as I walked the neighborhood small signs were all around me, signs that fall is just around the corner.  First, the air was crisp and cool, something we didn't experience the last five weeks or so.  Second, the leaves of trees and bushes are no longer the intense emerald of summer but rather the deep, dark tones of green we see just before the leaves start to change to warm autumn shades.  The flower beds are another indicator.  Spring flowers are long gone.  The bleeding heart foliage that has hung around considerably longer than usual is now turning yellow.  Many summer flowers are past their prime, going to seed, with stalks turning stiff and brown.  I actually saw some sedum, an autumn flower, starting to turn tones of pink.

There are other signs, signs not needing a walk to be apparent.  Banners are up around town welcoming university students back.  Monday the public school administrators start working, their summer vacation ends.  Hummingbirds visit my flower garden regularly now bulking up for their long journey south.  The rose- breasted grosbeak that visits our feeder in the spring before heading farther north has already visited us on his way south.  Football players, both college and high school, are out practicing, getting ready for the opening game.

And perhaps the best sign that fall is on its way is our annual planning for the upcoming holidays.  Now we are making arrangements for family get-togethers at Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I love that the anticipation begins now and builds slowly through September, starts to speed up in October, and we ride the peak from Thanksgiving through New Years. 

The signs are there.  Small now but building even as I write this.

The Book of Awakening

I received the book, THE BOOK OF AWAKENING, as a Christmas gift this last year.  I confess it has stayed on the book shelf up until recently.  For no identifiable reason I pulled it off the shelf a couple of days ago and lo and behold, it has been a comfortable, supportive companion each day since.  Today's reflection began with the following quote from Goethe:  "So long as you haven't experienced this: to die and so to grow, you are only a troubled guest on the dark earth."  Just that thought alone was enough to give me pause, to take time to reflect. 

This past week I've used the word "synchronicity" several times because I've either experienced a sequence of seemingly unrelated events that seen as a whole were clearly related or such events in the lives of my friend were shared with me that were of the same kind.  That's what is at play again with today's passage.  I sent my sister, who is at a cross roads in her life, a card this past week that says something to the effect that you only start to grow when you reach the outer edges of your comfort zone.  This morning as I wrote an email to a friend, I mentioned that the greatest growth I've experienced has always followed my greatest discomfort.  And then I read the August 9th entry in this book and there it is, the quote and the daily reflection titled, "Preparing the Way".  The author likens living to a series of mini deaths.  Death of old habits, death of old ways of thinking, even the sloughing off of dead skin cells is part of living and growth. 

Each passage ends with suggestions for meditation.  This one asks the reader to "sit quietly and consider the many selves you have been.  As you breathe evenly, consider how the new self has always been growing underneath the old.  Now close your eyes and meditate on the newness growing within you right now.  As you breathe steadily, relax your grip on the habits of your mind that might be blocking your growth."  It's proved to be a peaceful way to enter into my day.  I thought I'd share it here so you, too, can benefit.

PS:  If you're interested in the book, it's THE BOOK OF AWAKENING by Mark Nepo. Conari Press.

Reflections of a Different Kind

Have you ever passed by a shop window or a mirror and done a double take?  Recently, that's happened twice.  The first time I thought I saw my grandmother.  The second time I thought I saw my father.  Each time, upon a second look, I realized the reflection I saw was my own.  Funny, the reflection in my mind's eye is so different!  No wonder I didn't recognize myself.  Since then I've stood in front of the bathroom mirror studying my aging features, looking for the similarities I have with those long dead relatives.  And they are there, of course, for better or worse.

That got me to thinking about age, my age in particular.  That self-reflected image I carry in my mind I mentioned above?  Well, I would guess the age of that person to be early 40's.  And my self-image in terms of my energy and my intellect?  Most times I feel even younger than that, especially after a good workout.  And yet, the mirror clearly tells a different story.  It says I am, indeed, 62.

That got me to thinking about the "me" behind the physical facade.  It's like my body is a container wherein resides my person.  The container definitely looks less for the wear but the person?  She doesn't feel worn at all.  In fact, she's feeling more empowered and vital than she's felt in years.  I wasn't aware of this duality when I was younger.  The body and the person fit together pretty well back then.  They complemented each other.

So what happens to "me" when the container no longer functions?  When the container restricts the energy of "me"?  Sure, I know, there are those who have pat answers to that question but I've not been able to reconcile those answers with what I have experienced, what I've observed, and what seems logical.  Will the energy of "me" disperse into the universe, possibly joining with the energy of others who've gone before?  Will it transfer to a new container?  Or is there a bigger energy that will draw "me" to it, like a magnet or into it like a black hole?  Or does it just fizzle out, like one of those sparklers we used to light for the Fourth of July?  This last is the least satisfying thought.  I just don't see my body as fuel for "me".  I don't see the aging of this body as being the result of expended fuel.

Anyway, I feel a disconnect between "me" and my body, that's real.  Just as real as the disconnect I felt when I first glimpsed my reflections, mistaking them for past relatives.  Beyond that, it's all conjecture.

A Life Changer

Recently, I was asked a number of questions regarding events surrounding the brain aneurysm I suffered when I was 35.  Rarely does a day go by that I am not reminded of it.  After all, I have a serious scar on my head which starts at my brow and ends behind my ear.  I have worn bangs ever since in an effort to hide it.  I also have a short term memory and central processing disorder as residuals of the surgery.  Both I have managed to overcome through therapy and time.  And yet, I haven't relived the actual sequence of events for years.  Let's see, I'm 62 now so we're tallking 27 years. That sounds like a long time between the event and now, but I'm here to tell you, it is as clear to me today as it was when it happened.

It was a late January night in 1984.  Rog and I were in bed and in the midst of intimate activity.  Intercourse, in other words.  I remember all the signals were going off in my body telling me I was about to have an orgasm when my head exploded.  Well, not literally, but I saw an explosion in my head complete with the accompanying fireworks, white lightening radiating in all directions from a central point against a pitch black background.  Really.  And my head hurt.  Bad.  But the rest of my body was reaching for sexual gratification.  I remember thinking to myself in a split second, which do I hold on to?  The pain or the pleasure?  I went for the pleasure.  As good as I was feeling once orgasm was achieved however, did nothing for the major headache I was experiencing.  I remember getting out of bed and splashing my face with cold water in the hopes of putting out the fire in my head.  I moaned, for God's sake, which is not at all my standard.  The only other pain I've ever experienced that got any sound from me was child birth. 

So, it's midnight or so and I'm in major headache mode but not thinking it's anything more than that, I go back to bed to sleep it off.  That has been, and still is, my approach to dealing with illness.  Before too long, I was feeling queasy and asked Rog to get a bowl in case I threw up.  Throw up, I did.  More than once.  You might think I would have put two and two together at that point, but no, I was in major denial.  I had a headache and an upset stomach.  Period.  I WOULD feel better in the morning.  My husband, on the other hand, must have concluded things were far more serious than that though he did not suggest we go to the hospital at that time.  When the clock alarm went off, I did not feel well at all.  In fact, not only did my head hurt but light hurt.  I know that sounds strange but it did.  I could not handle seeing light.  Only a darkened room or keeping my eyes closed made the rest of my issues tolerable.  My husband suggested we go to the emergency room.  Being a teacher, there were details to attend to before I could do any such thing.   I had to call in sick and talk with the subsitute.  There were no sub plans and the regular plans for the day were with me, not at school.  I must have sounded like a total wimp as I weakly described to the sub what I had planned to do that day.  Again, in my mind I would be back the following day so there wasn't much need to fill her in on the rest of the unit activities.

So we were off.  An indicator of just how bad I felt -- I didn't fix my hair or put on make-up, something I am never seen in public without.  I remember checking into the emergency waiting room and sitting and sitting and sitting.  I felt like death warmed over and surely looked the same but it seemed to me there was no one acting as if I was an emergency.  In fact, nothing about the emergency room indicated emergencies were dealt with there.  To me, everyone moved as if time was in abundance.  When finally we were called, a young doctor asked me what was wrong and I explained what had transpired the previous evening.  He had me stand up and touch my nose with each hand.  He asked me to walk a straight line.  For crying out loud, I was sick, not drunk!  But the results of these simple tests must have told him something because the next thing I knew I was having x-rays and a spinal tap.  Blood was found in my spinal fluid and now, for the first time, I began to understand that this was something more serious than a major headache.

I remember lying on a hospital bed on wheels when the neurologist came to tell me what they suspected was wrong.  I'm looking up at this face, no body, just a face.  A strange face whose mouth is moving but I don't hear the words at first.  I hear that they think an aneurysm in my brain has sprung a leak, I'm going to be put in the ICU, I'm going to have a cat scan to determine exactly what has happened and where in my brain, how bad it is.  I'm still not fully ready to believe that I'm in serious condition, that I'm not going back to work tomorrow.  I'm just glad to know that they may know what's wrong and they plan to fix it.

I remember being in ICU, hooked up to machines.  I must have slept a lot while there as I don't remember much.  A student of mine came to visit while I was there.  She told me she told the hospital personnel she was my sister since only immediate family was allowed to visit patients in ICU.  I accepted that answer back then but now I think maybe her father had something to do with it.  As I recall he was some kind of official with the hospital.  Anyway, once I was stabilized and tests had been run and the diagnosis confirmed, I was moved to a general ward to wait.  I was told that research showed that patients with my condition fared better during surgery if a period of up to ten days was allowed for the body and the brain to normalize.  Those days went by uneventfully.  I ate, slept, bathed in bed, had to ring for bathroom assistance, did cross stitch, and listened to books on tape.  I had visitors.  Family, colleagues, friends.  I never once thought of my condition or the upcoming surgery.  I existed in a blissful state of acceptance.  No pain, no worry, just doing as I was told and allowing everyone else around me to deal with the details.

The night before the surgery, Dr. Belagura, my micro-neuro surgeon, came to discuss with Roger and I what we could expect the following day.  I remember he started out by saying something about how much easier it would be were he to be operating on an old lady whose brain had been stomped on by a Mack truck than to be operating on me, a vital young woman.  Not exactly a cheering way to begin the conversation.  From there he described the procedure and all the possible results.  On one end, I could die on the surgery table, especially if I seizure on the table (the whole idea of the ten days prior to the surgery was to lessen the likelihood of that happening).  The aneurysm could fully rupture.  I could be paralyzed, blind, unable to speak.  We wouldn't know until he got in there and found out exactly what was going on and what had to be done to stop it.  The surgery would take about four hours.

I remember holding my husband's hand, looking at him.  I don't remember what we said to each other before he left for the night but I do remember what I did for hours after.  Sleep was not on the list.  I finished listening to A TALE OF TWO CITIES.  I reviewed the life I had led up to that point.  I thought of the things I hadn't yet done or accomplished.  I promised myself that if I came through this whole, I would no longer let things happen to me but rather I would make things happen for me.  I would not put off for tomorrow what I could do in the present.  I promised I would not find myself in this same position in the future with regrets about what I hadn't done, hadn't achieved.  At some point, sleep overcame my thinking.

The morning of the surgery, I do not remember feeling any apprehension.  Not before and especially not after taking whatever drug they gave me.  I remember Roger taking my picture.  I remember smiling and laughing as I was rolled down the hallway.  I remember thinking how cold and small the operating room was.  And then I remember nothing.  It's like I was a light and someone had pulled the cord.  I was out and stayed out for the better part of two days.  The surgery took three hours longer than anticipated.  The aneurysm did fully rupture during the operation.  I have my medical records and while difficult to decipher, it is clear there was a period of serious concern.  Roger spent all seven hours in a waiting room by himself, by his choice.  As I think on it, he had the tougher time.  He dealt with all the "what if's".  He told me he started thinking of building ramps to the house at one point.  Friends helped out with our son who was blissfully too young to fully understand all that was going on.  Roger, on the other hand, spent some time thinking about life as a single father.

Roger took a picture of me in the ICU after the surgery.  I am not sure I really remember anything about my time there and I am thankful I had no idea how I looked.  That Mack truck the surgeon talked about the night before the surgery, well, I looked like the Mack truck won.  I do remember regaining conciousness and being told how long I had been out.  I remember being asked who the president was and thinking one answer while giving another.  A wrong answer.  I remember drifting in and out and periodically being asked simple questions I absolutely had the right answers to but was to be unable to give.  It was like my mouth had a mind of its own.  Roger tells me the doctor told him he was very pleased with how things went.  I suspect Roger must have had some doubts given not only the way I looked but the way I sounded.  Time seemed to work its magic though and gradually the real Robin started to make herself known. 

I was moved out of the ICU and about a week later was told I would be going home.  I felt great.  Light no longer bothered me.  I was lucid and not only knew but gave the right answers to such questions as, "Who is the president?  How old are you?  What's your name?" 

At home there was a period of rest and then a period of boredom.  I had follow-up appointments with my neurologist who explained that there would be residuals from the surgery but that they couldn't say for sure what they would be until the scar tissue had fully developed.  From all indications, the worst had been avoided but one couldn't dig around in someone's brain without some expectation of consequences.  My aneurysm was located near the optical nerve on my left side.  It was in an area that dealt with language.  That's what I was told but at that time it meant nothing to me, really.  Everything seemed normal so about six weeks after the event itself, I returned to work.  That was a mistake.

Going into a classroom to teach flanguage arts to thirteen year olds is a challenge under the best of circumstances.  For someone who hasn't fully recovered their energy and who might have a few loose wires in their head, it proved extremely frustrating.  I loved teaching and I loved my students.  I had every reason to believe they loved me.  Well, at least as much as 8th graders can love any teacher.  Things seemed to be going okay other than my being tired but there were a few quirky events that I couldn't explain.  A student would give an answer and I'd repeat what I thought was said only to be greeted with unexplained laughter.  I would be asked to do something, whether by colleagues, students, or Roger, and I wouldn't get the task done.  My forgetfulness frustrated others, Roger most of all.  My last days of teaching were less than auspicous.  I chalked it up to being very, very tired.

Then summer came and while my memory issues bothered Roger, the lack of job responsibilities helped life resemble normalcy.  I took a leave of absence to return to grad school that fall and there my frustrations grew.  At one point, I believed I was going crazy.  I had always been a decent student.  Learning, when I applied myself, was relatively easy.  Not so now.  I could read a page and not remember a thing.  I could read it four or five times and barely remember the most important concepts while not holding on to any of the details.  At one point I was called upon to give an answer and then having given it, I was asked to repeat it for the class.  I couldn't.  I couldn't remember the question much less my answer!  I wasn't tackling the duties of my assistantship well either.  Nothing was going as I had expected and finally I shared this with my neurologist.  Tests were run and it was determined that I had a short term memory deficit and a central auditory processing disorder.  Can you inagine the relief hearing that brought to me?  I wasn't crazy.  Things that once were simple, weren't any more.  But knowing what was wrong, I was able to receive a bit of therapy and make some adjustments.  Clearly, I've been able to do well inspite of these issues.  In fact, I think it made me a much better educator.  Understanding that different brains process differently helped me understand the need to present information using multi-modalities.

So, here I am, 62 years old, retired, enjoying a full and happy life.  The only thing, in addition to the scar, that remains to remind me of the aneurysm, is a tingling sensation I experience on my right side, especially in the extremities.  It's nearly a constant in my life but I'm so used to it that I have to think about it to feel it.  Were I to face a similar situation today, I would have only one regret -- the possible loss of the years ahead and for that I am grateful.

Route 66, Atlanta, Illinois

Route 66.  I wonder if anyone under the age of 20 even knows this highway much less the cultural impact it had on our country.  I know there are many of us 60 and older who travelled sections of this highway, saw the TV show, and enjoy the song.  And of those, there are some who continue to seek out the stretches of the original highway that still exist and visit various sites along the way.  One stretch we recently travelled is found in Illinois.  The pictures below are of Atlanta, Illinois, a small village off the interstate but once a stopover for those travelling Route 66.

 The library is significant because it is responsible for some of the restoration that has taken place in the city, especially the Palms Grill Cafe.

 We like to stop here to eat, if our time is right.  It opens a bit later than we like for breakfast and closes earlier than we like for dinner but the food, especially the pies, are worth eating off our regular schedule.  You won't find any billboards on the highway advertising its existence.  In fact, you might be tempted to stop at the restaurant you pass as you drive into Atlanta.  Don't.  While I'm sure the food there is good, the Palms has to be better and the ambience is pure Route 66.

 The town is small, as I said above, but they've done a nice job of recreating the painted signs on the side of their buildings.  They are worth seeing.

So, if you are on your way to Chicago and you see the turnoff for Atlanta.  Take a break.  Drive into the town.  Enjoy a step back in history and a great piece of pie!

Celebrations

Since this is July 2nd, you might think my title refers to the Fourth of July but it does not.  Rather it refers to how my husband and I celebrated our 63rd and 62nd birthdays, respectively, as well as our 39th anniversary.  In short, we didn't.  Now that probably sounds pretty negative to you but on the contrary, for us and to me, it is a strong positive.  Since before we retired and even more so after, we've been leading a very satisfying life.  We travel.  We buy the things we want and need (fortunately, our wants and needs are few and not extravagant).  We enjoy our home and our hometown.  We have good friends and family.  We are healthy and happy and pursuing our individual and shared interests.  It took us years to reach this level.  During those years marking birthdays and anniversaries were excuses to indulge, to take a break and acknowledge each other and our love.  They were also times we worked to find gifts for each other than were meaningful and wanted.  And as I look back on it, they were stressful times.  Did I get the right present for him?  Did we manage to make the occasion special for each other?  Did it convey what we truly felt?  Was he disappointed and more importantly, was I?  We no longer need that annual excuse or experience the stress.  Celebrations for birthdays and anniversaries are no longer set by a date on the calendar nor do they occur once a year.

On our birthdays this year, we went out to eat and listened to great jazz in a cozy restaurant that never disappoints.  It happened that on one of these days, we entertained a nephew who was in town for a conference.  On our anniversary we were at that same cozy restuarant listening to more great music and eating more great food while drinking some very fine wine.  The thing is we do this regularly.  It's not special because we do it rarely; it's special because we do what we love as often as we want and can.  We did not exchange gifts.  When either of us finds something we think the other will really love, we buy it and give it to them, no matter the date on the calendar.  More importantly, we are comfortable buying for ourselves these kinds of things when we find them.  Neither of us are shopaholics.  I am not talking of superfluous spending here.  I'm talking about items, large or small, that fit into our collections or add to our enjoyment of our home or yard.  We have a kind of list of places we want to see before we are no longer able to travel.  These will not be put off to fit a birthday/anniversary schedule but rather, will be fit into our calendar and budget when possible.  The irony is that there is so much we want to do and so little time.  There are conflicting variables and other schedules to consider.  We find ourselves debating which events or places are of the greater importance to us and planning our calendar months in advance.

Now I'm not saying this is how everyone should celebrate the special birthday and anniversary occasions in their lives.  I'm just saying this is how we are doing it now and that it works for us.  As I think about it, I see it as a testimony to how well we get along, how much we share in common, how much we've grown as a couple, and how much we respect and love each other, expressed not only at the prescribed times of the year but rather enjoyed year round.

Some of the Reasons...

The following are some of the reasons I spend hours on my deck...

Morning Thoughts on the Road to Working Out

Yesterday on the road heading to my early morning workout, random thoughts cascaded through my mind, as is often the case when I am driving.  At first I was simply enjoying the wonder of the western morning sky --pure pale blue with a few faint streaks of high wind-wisped clouds reflecting the morning sun.  I wondered if we tend to notice the finer details of our environment the older we get?  Do we spend a large portion of our lives in a hurry to get from one point to another until we reach some stage, as we age, where we slow down hoping to stretch time out, to extend what time we've got left, and in the process notice more, appreciate more?

From that thought, my mind moved on to remembering how much I enjoyed teaching Language Arts and thirteen year olds.  Language Arts.  I even loved the title.  Language ... "the words, their pronunciation, and the methods of combining them used and understood by a community" (Webster).  Art ... "the use of skill and imagination in the production of things of beauty".  I don't know for sure but I like to think it's this definition of "art" the originators of this title had in mind.  Words, sentences, paragraphs, poems, novels, plays.  I loved them all.  A finely turned phrase.  A word that better than any other names or describes a feeling, an experience, an event, a thing.  A phrase or sentence that sums up the exact moment, the exact thought.  A bit of prose or poem that causes me to feel with my mind and my body and my soul.  These are precious treasures to savor.  I also think that thirteen year olds are pretty precious treasures though I'm sure not everyone would agree with me.  Together -- language arts, thirteen year olds, and me -- we explored literature, our way of expressing ourselves, and in the process, learned about ourselves, too.  I loved it all and found myself wondering, would I feel the same if I had continued to teach rather than move into administration.

My last random thought on that fifteen minute drive dealt with the word "strong".  Relying on Webster again, "strong" is defined as "powerful, vigorous, healthy, robust, not mild or weak, not easily broken, firm, solid".  There are strong odors, strong beats in a song, strong flavors, strong commitments, strong ties, strong emotions, strong people.  And as I contemplated all that, I realized all my random thoughts this morning were an outgrowth of the phone conversation I had had with my lifelong friend and former student the night before.  Strong is a word she used as she spoke of herself and her determination to overcome the residual effects of a recent illness.   I realized that all the definitions apply to her, to her spirit.

Scars

Got to thinking about scars this morning as I was driving home from a shopping trip.  In part it has to be due to seeing my back side in the dressing room mirror.  It's something I rarely look at and I saw a small scar I had forgotten I had.  And in part, it has to be due to my thinking about my mother-in-law.  One time, a long time ago, she kinda conducted a group therapy session with family, asking us to share a story about a scar we have.  I think she was introduced to this tactic during therapy she was undergoing at the time.   I think she was using it to reconnect with her children. 

So what are scars?  The dictionary says a scar is "a mark left after injured tissue has healed".  The key word here is "healed".  Scars are positive things.  Whatever caused the damage has long ago ended and while the scar is evidence of a trauma, that trauma is over.  Wounds are different.  They have yet to heal.  Some are slight and some can be gapping.  If neglected or worried, a wound can fester and worsen.  I'd much rather see a scar than a festering wound.

Anyway, I got to thinking about scars and wounds.  There are two kind -- physical and emotional.  Starting from bottom and moving up...  I've a scar on one of my knees.  It's really a kind of cyst.  Pencil lead.  I was in middle school and had a crush on a young man, I think his name was Bobby.  Somehow the boy I was sitting behind had this information.  Maybe I told him but that's unlikely.  Maybe he saw me writing his name on my notebook.  That's possible.  Anyway, I vaguely remember him starting to share this information with the class.  I hit him and he hit me back.  I hit him in the face with open hand.  He hit me in the knee with a very sharp pencil.  The lead broke off and has remained there, encased in scar tissue and flesh, for my lifetime, a reminder to be discreet and to be less physically reactive.  On both legs from above my knees to my upper thighs, there are faint lines that start with an round indentation.  These are the leftovers of my one and only college kegger.  You need to remember that was back in 1967, alcohol and privacy were less available to underage college freshmen.  I was out with a guy named Norm in the middle of a corn field, bonfire blazing, and alcohol being passed around.  Before the party really got going we saw headlights heading our way.  Norm panicked.  Well, maybe we all panicked.  But anyway, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the standing corn.  Unfortunately, that particular field was fenced with barbed wire.  Norm missed it.  I didn't.  I must have run right into barbs on both legs and as I fell over, the barb scraped up my leg.  Thus ended my night out with Norm.  I spent the rest of the evening in the health clinic getting tetanus shots and mourning my now scar adorned legs. 
My torso is pretty much absent scars other than the mark I mentioned earlier.  I've had it as long as I can remember and have no idea how it got there.  On one elbow there is a semicircle scar.  It's one I got while cleaning out my oven.  I got oven cleaner on my elbow and didn't realize it until it had eaten through my skin and into my flesh.  I now have a self-cleaning oven.  On my right ear there is a bump midway between the bottom of the lobe and the top of my ear.  My mom was stepping on the scales.  I was probably in high school and full of myself.  I made a big show of getting down to see how much she weighed.  She backhanded me, sending me into the edge of the kitchen cabinet, hitting my ear.  A person's weight is private information.  I know, and understand, that now.  On my left upper lip, in the corner, there is a small bump, the result of a couple of stitches.  When I was in sixth grade or so, I was playing with a neighborhood guy.  I've always found boys easier to get along with than girls.  We were on our bikes and riding down a steep incline.  I don't know how many times I made it without falling but the last time, I managed to not only fall but to hit my face on a rock which went clean through my lip.  Of all my scars, that's one that I remember as a badge of honor.  The last known scar I have to mention runs from my left temple to behind my ear in a half moon.  It is the surgical incision made to clip the brain aneurysm I suffered when I was 35.  It is a constant reminder of how fragile life is and how lucky I am to be here.

I guess life is a kind of battle.  I doubt anyone gets through it without scars of one kind or another.  The key here is that each and every scar I mentioned has healed and has not kept me from living a full and happy life.  I've tried to learn from them, to see them as markers of experience.  Wounds yet to heal -- the emotional ones, the self-inflicted ones, those of the heart and soul -- are far more serious.  Perhaps I'll discuss those in some future blog entry.

Just Another On the Road Drama

This morning as I drove to the nursery to pick up a few more flowers for my garden, I spied a truck pulled off to the side of the road.  As I got closer, I saw the driver's door open and glimpsed a pair of feet splayed out on the ground with a man squatting down facing them.  Once I was directly in front of them and beginning to pass, I could see that the feet belonged to a woman.  She was seated on the ground, elbows resting on her knees, head in her hands.  The man, as I said, was squatting in front of her, his arms extended, hands on each shoulder.  She looked despondent; he looked concerned.  I know, I know.  How can I come to that conclusion with only a passing glance?  All I can say is, the body language spoke loudly.

So, the rest of my drive and part of my day has been spent wondering about them.  What happened?  What brought them to a stop mid-trip?  Are they lovers?  Father/daughter?  Brother/sister?  Or just friends?  Were they even in the truck together?  Maybe she was on the ground and seeing her, he pulled over to see what was wrong?  Had they quarreled?  Did she just receive bad news?  A death in the family, a foreclosure, loss of a job...  Maybe she had too much to drink last night and in her hangover, needed to get grounded before getting sick.  Maybe they had just hit someone's pet.  Maybe he had just shared that he was breaking up with her, leaving her, having an affair...  Maybe she had just learned that he had testicular cancer...  The story possibilities are endless.  

Just another drama while on the road...

Spring at Home

Spring arrived in Ann Arbor, late but glorious nonetheless.  What I've noticed, however, is that it came and went in the blink of an eye.  The tree below moved slowly into bloom and began dropping petals almost as soon.  Looking out my window now, it has very few blooms left, lots of brown petals drooping, and yellow green leaves taking their place.

The daffodils below lasted longer than the tree blooms but today there are few left and those that are, are shrivelled and brown.

The rhododendrons below lasted a bit longer than the tree blooms but not as long as the daffodils.  All the petals are gone now and new growth is taking their place.

The pear tree below is a new addition to the yard.  It, as you can see, did very well this spring.  Blooming late, as with everything else, it lasted about a week before starting to lose petals and move into spring green foliage.

The tulips, as with everything else, bloomed late and didn't last long.  They, however, had another reason for disappearing fast.  We have a couple local groundhogs and several squirrels that seen to enjoy eating the blooms. 

Spring Revisit of Horicon

Last fall we took a trip to the Horicon Marsh in Wisconsin to see the thousands of water fowl who use the marsh as a resting place on their migration south.  We loved everything about that trip -- the scenery, the weather, the birds.  The guide on the boat tour we took advised us to return in the spring.  He assured us that we would see a greater number of birds and more variety.  Many of the birds, he assured us, would be nesting around Mother's Day so we would see baby birds as well as adults.  This past Mother's Day weekend, we took him at his word and headed back to Horicon.

The boat tour in the fall was taken in the early afternoon.  This spring we took the tour at 6:00 pm, early evening.  It was peaceful and serene and one of the rare warm days we've had this spring.  While the cool spring altered the number of birds in the marsh, we were, with the assistance of the tour guide, able to identify 51 different kinds of birds.  Most of them were too small for me to photograph with my lens but believe me when there were lots and lots of birds.  Being smaller than the waterfowl of the fall, they did not dominate the landscape in the same way but the air was full of birdsong of various kinds.

Canadian geese were easy to spot.  We were assured that these geese were born and raised right here in the marsh and have never seen the likes of Canada.  We saw more than one brood enjoying an evening swim.

The sunset was lovely.  Not quite the spectacle of the sunrise this past fall but nonetheless a sight to behold.  Our eyes, however, were always searching for birds so the sunset didn't get much attention.

This is one of four American eagles we saw on this trip.  We were treated to a special show when this guy swooped down to the ground and then flew back to this perch with something in his claws.  At first we thought it might be a muskrat or a beaver but it turned out to be a small duck.  Feathers fell softly to the water as this eagle's evening meal was devoured.

We saw several great blue herons and sandhill cranes before the trip ended.  Birds this large and larger (there are pelicans in the marsh also but we only saw them flying in the distance) seem out of place to me.  I've only really seen them in the zoo.  To see them in a natural setting is one of the satisfactions of coming here.

I believe this is a coot.  We were told that the fact they are coming back to the marsh is a testimony to the job they've done cleaning up the water.

I can't tell you what kind of bird this little guy is but the benefit of going out in the evening is that the birds come in to roost for the night.  We could see the trees filling as our boat tour came to an end.

We were glad to revisit Horicon but we won't come back in the spring again.  Fall is the better time for us. 

Early Spring: Indiana

Early in April we decided to head south.  Not real south, just as far south in Indiana as one could go without being in Kentucky.  We planned the trip as a loop taking us to various antique malls along the way with specific stops in Indianaoplis to catch some jazz at the Jazz Kitchen, in Columbus, Indiana to see the oldest continuously running bar in the state, and in Madison, Indiana as it was a city we visited long ago when we were much younger and much poorer.  It happened that we purchased an apothecary chest then that was really far too expensive for our budget at the time but which has become a beloved piece of furniture in our home.  The picture above is of a mural on the side of a building across from one of the antique malls we visited.  I can't remember the name of the city but it was medium sized, had quite a bit of character, but had several store fronts empty and advertising for sale which was true of many of the cities we went through on this trip.

As you can see, the city was pretty empty.  We asked the propietors at the antique mall where would be a good place for breakfast.  The couple really wasn't all that helpful but with the mention of fresh baked rolls, they were able to direct us to a local bakery and off we went in search of it.

Believe it or not, this was it!  The enclosed side porch is where the baked goods were displayed and purchased.  The rest of the building was clearly the home of the owner.  On both sides and across the streets were similar homes, none of which also boasted a business.  We left with four muffins which we devoured before getting back into the car.  They were really good but not what we had really wanted for breakfast.

While the muffins were not the hot, homemade breakfast we had hoped for, we would have been disappointed to miss the delivery truck used by this bakery.

This filling station museum was across from our hotel in Columbus.  Unfortunately, it wasn't open but we walked around and peeked into the windows.  The coke machine, the gas pumps, the garage itself -- all brought back memories of full service gas stations with $.25 a gallon gas.  The garage had two classic antique cars, one of which was a Rolls Royce. 

This is the outside of the Kickerbacker Saloon, the oldest continuously running bar in Indiana.  We were giddy with anticipation.  Loving historic bars as we do, we always search out such bars in any city we visit.  We've found some treasures with massive wooden back bars sporting intricate carvings, stain glass windows, brass foot rests, furniture and decor that shout their age with dignity and pride.  And we've encountered real dumps.  Dirty, unkept, scarred by time but still managing to survive with a loyal clientele.  Both have their appeal.  This bar had neither.

It's a bad picture, I know, but this bar had been remodelled recently and probably more than once in its long history.  TV's were prominently displayed in several corners of the room.  It was clean and serviceable but lacked the character we expect from historic bars.  In other words, we were disappointed.

The town of Columbus, however, did not disappoint.  It was clean, the buildings preserved, and functioning.  This marquee, once adorning a theater, now adorns a event center.

The Broadway Hotel in Madison housed the historic bar.  When we first tried to see it, we found that it was reserved for a wedding reception.  We were told to come back around 8:00 pm and so we moved on.

This small cart was located outside a small market on Main Street. There was little traffic, either that of cars or pedestrians. Several of the stores were closed and others were out of business. This changed as the day moved into evening, however. More and more people were to be seen entering restaurants and bars. We actually saw about eight Amish teenagers crossing the street, laughing and carrying on. 

 

Somehow this cat in a shop window sums up Madison.  Comfortable, lazy, at ease, unaware of the world passing by.   

This small park is located off Main Street in Madison between businesses and churches, a small bit of greenery and peace inviting all to sit for a spell. You can see we succeeded in going far enough south to find spring. Things were green and beginning to burst into bloom. While my pictures indicate we had wonderful sunny weather, rest assured that it rained on us most of our trip. We were just fortunate that the time we were in Madison found the sun shining on us.

As we were walking along Main Street taking in the sights and enjoying the sunshine, I happened to look down and realized that the details are sometimes just as lovely as the big picture.

What you see is the bank of the Ohio River.  Well, not actually the bank.  It's probably a few feet farther in but the river by this time had swollen over it's banks and ran muddy and swift.

This is one of the images I think fits into what ee cummings had in mind when he wrote "in-Just Spring".  So close to blooming but not quite there.

Having exhausted the city, we headed for Shifty Falls State Park, just a hop-skip-and-a-jump from Madison.  We figured we would hike even if the trails were muddy.  As it turns out, there were board walks and what trails we followed were fairly hard packed with little mud.

What I imagine is usually a quiet flowing creek was a rushing torrent.

And what was probably a gentle falls later in summer was crashing muddy water.

The park was a great stop for us but we wanted to head back to the city to check out the bar at the Broadway Hotel and to see what kind of entertainment this river city offered on a Saturday evening.

We found Madison a very walkable city, even from this, our hotel, perched high on a hill overlooking the Ohio River and Madison.  Our room was on this side and had a balcony.  The hotel was clean and the personnel, gracious.  Anyone staying here can make claim to having stayed in the same hotel Frank Sinatra stayed in while shooting a film  I can't remember the name but the plot revolved around GI Frank returning home from the war and having a difficult time returning to the small town culture and its ways. 

Our first stop this evening was this bar whose most defining feature was the mural painted on the side of the building.  The inside of the bar was your usual small town bar; the clientele, friendly and colorful but the beer selection very limited.

From there we moved to a wine bar which is run by the local vintner and only serves their wine.  As you can see, the bar was warm and welcoming.  The wine was a bit of a disappointment but the entertainment made it imperative that we stay through the first set.  Two young ladies, one playing a guitar; the other, an accordion.  Both sang.  The songs were all originals.  Their voices blended well but one was clearly the better singer.  While the songs were pleasant, we wish they had sang a few well known songs, too.  We were certain we'd have enjoyed them even more.

Joey G's was our next stop and at first sight looked to be our best.  Unfortunately, part of what brings out the best of entertainers was missing.  There were only a handful of patrons listening to a gray bearded man sitting on stage with a guitar in his lap, his foot on a control, and pre-recorded background music accompanying his singing and playing.  He looked and sounded like a down-trodden Kenny Rogers who's been on the road too long and who's dreams long ago faded.  The late hour of the night and the spase crowd made his blues all the bluer.

From Joey G's we headed to the bar at the Broadway Hotel.  Here we found a young and lively crowd.  After a beer, we headed for H Hinkle Hamburger which stays open into the wee hours of the morning.  The food was cheap, hot, and filling. 

This was the sight we saw outside our window Sunday morning.  The mist began as a thick fog and as morning progressed, it gradually disappeared until all that was left was what you see here -- a mist on the Ohio.  The bridge takes you to Kentucky but not us.  We headed north for home and cold, wet weather and a landscape that more resembled winter than spring.  It would be two more weeks before Ann Arbor would sport green in its trees.