In Between I Garden

I'm Moving

2006-07-08T06:51:00.000-05:00

I'm Moving
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

Ok, call me a wimp, but I've succumbed to the charms of iWeb. If you're interested in staying with me, bookmark my
NEW BLOG HOME.

The Pursuit of Happiness

2006-07-03T21:18:00.000-05:00

CBS Sunday Morning, one of my favorite TV shows, had the theme, “The Pursuit of Happiness,” yesterday. This, of course, was tied to tomorrow, the Fourth of July, and America’s founding credo, “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”

The program started out with a 78-year-old man who has worked more than 50 years as a garbage collector in New York City. Most of us would agree that being a garbage collector would be a difficult, undesirable job, but this man was happy. He said that he liked the exercise that he got, that anything smelly was smelly only briefly, and that he liked being around people. In all the years on the job, he hasn’t taken one sick day. And once a year, he takes his family on a cruise.

Dr. Ed Diener, a psychology professor who studies happiness at the University of Illinois, was interviewed later in the show. He’s trying to develop a scale that measures well-being (the academic word for happiness) and thinks that such a device could be used to evaluate general societal trends. Professor Diener supports the idea of having an ongoing poll of the US to determine well-being, a gauge that would no doubt be important for politicians to heed.

He also suggests that there are different categories of happiness, the here and now and long-term. For an example of short-term, here and now happiness, consider Johan, who now is 4 years old and loves to run barefoot in his back yard, climb under, around and over anything in his path. This is a happy boy.

Happiness

Long term, as I now have 60+ days till retirement, I’m pondering how I’ll be able to find purposeful happiness in my life. I’m considering going to a Yoga class, being with my family much more than I’ve been able to since my children were very young, making Footsies, and perhaps doing some Hospice volunteer work. The possibilities abound.

What’s your idea of happiness?

Out of Crisis Comes Opportunity

2006-06-24T16:19:00.000-05:00

As mentioned in my last post, we have a white picket fence around our front yard. It aged rapidly, despite attempts to keep it painted and repaired, so last year we invested in a rugged no-paint white plastic replacement fence. The purists in the crowd are probably groaning with the thoughts of fake wood, but I was fed up with continuing fence deterioration.

The replacement fence is working very well and will, for at least as long as we’re in this house, not need much maintenance. However, last summer our neighbors to the west, whose house is not much more than 15 feet from ours, decided to put up a plastic fence of their own. Unfortunately their idea of color selection is not even on the same color palette as ours; they chose a putty tan-gold-cum-baby-poop color that stinks, if a color can stink.

They also decided to install this lovely color in 6 foot high stockade type panels, which, of course does give them great privacy from our busy street and from us, their too close for comfort neighbors. When it was installed last summer, the fence encircled their back yard, leaving the areas between our front yards still bordered by our new white picket fence.

Old Fence
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

We assumed that that was all they were going to do with their fence projects, but early this spring, S, the adult male of the house, came out while I was digging and dropped a bomb.

“I have good news and I have bad news.”

I waited for the inevitable.

“The good news is that we got money back on our tax return. The bad news is that we’re going to put up the rest of the fence around our front yard.”

I’m never one quick to think on my feet. I have to ponder all of the options, think about them, and eventually come up with a reaction. My main reaction at that point was numbness. How in the world were we going to put up with our lovely fence backed by s….. colored fencing?

I told S that Dennis and I needed to talk about it and we’d get back to him about our reaction.

I have to tell you that Dennis, who is the colorist of the house, handled the next conversation with S masterfully. With furrowed brow he mused to the guy, “Well, I’m thinking that our white fence might not look all that great against a fence like yours. Maybe we could paint our side white?”

“Oh, I don’t know why not. That should work fine—and I’m sure it would be OK with C (woman of the house.)”

It didn’t take Dennis too long to figure out that, of course, plastic can't be painted—that’s why you get a plastic fence. It was a quick leap then to realizing that our beautiful one-year old white fence on the west side of our yard was going to have to be relocated and replaced by a white plastic 6 foot high stockade fence, not unlike our neighbors’, but certainly much kinder to the eye.

Several weeks ago the new fence was installed and I have to tell you that in the long-run, the whole crisis has turned into a blessing in disguise. First, I can go out in the front yard and dig and bend and do whatever undignified maneuver a plant calls me to perform without having to worry about how it looks to our neighbors. But best of all, the tall expanse of white fence is like a canvas, a backdrop to our plants; now we can see the hollyhocks, delphinium, lilies and nicotiana without having to pick them out from competing sights in our neighbors’ yard.

New Fence
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

Dennis and I have a bet going: I think that the neighbors won’t bother with putting up their ugly s… colored fence in front of ours; Dennis thinks they will. If I win, Dennis says he’ll go over and invite them to share in the cost of our newest fence. The man has guts.

3wk Zinnias
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

Zinnia Day

2006-06-24T16:15:00.000-05:00

Zinnia Day
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

(Written on June 3, but only now posted due to my e-challenges.)

During my first Spring in this house, I paid a handyman to rip out all of the treacherous Barberry bushes that lined the front sidewalk and continued up the west border of the lawn. I also engaged Greenview, a local landscaping company, to design and put in plantings along the front foundation of the house. Now 14 years later, I still have remnants of four of the perennials/bushes that they installed.

Immediately after the Barberry bushes were hauled off, the handyman set about putting up a white picket fence encircling the front yard. I started digging up sod. My first project was behind the front border of the fence. Being the fierce gardener that I am, I double dug that bed and planted what was to become the yearly line of giant zinnias next to the fence.

Every Spring since, I’ve dug that bed, some years a little more thoroughly than others. I always dig in a little mushroom compost and shredded leaves and the soil seems to welcome the new seeds each year.

This year’s crop went in this morning, literally with the dawn’s early light. I’m including a picture of the bed as it looks now and the bed last year.

2002 Zinnias
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

Carrots, Eggs, and Coffee

2006-04-28T05:32:00.000-05:00

I usually ignore the treacly, simplistic, and supposed inspirational messages that co-workers pass along to me. I’ve edited out some of the redundancies of the following and recommend that you glean what you can from it:

A young woman went to her mother complaining of her difficulties. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She boiled them and in twenty minutes turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl.

She asked her daughter to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to break an eggshell and see the hardboiled egg. Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean?"

Her mother replied, “Each of these objects faced the same adversity, boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. But after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they changed the water.

“Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?"

Think of this: Which am I? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength? Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart? Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.

Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean? Do you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong and enough sorrow to make you human? The happiest people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes their way.

My thanks to the anonymous person who created this.

What a Woman

2006-03-26T10:53:00.000-06:00

For those of us who occasionally have foot in mouth disease, check out the faux pas that a St. Louis DJ committed:

Uh-Oh

That Dr. Rice not only publicly forgives the man, but also draws a larger lesson from it, is nothing short of amazing grace.

I Know You'll Listen To Me

2006-03-25T01:32:00.000-06:00

As my loyal readers know, I’ve been counting down the days until September 9, after which I’ll be able to sleep in most weekdays and get more regular exercise. Recent events have helped me realize that maybe I should look at my remaining time on the job from a different point of view.

Several mornings ago I asked my first patient if she had any particular concerns. She said that she had a list of questions for me. Before proceeding with my own agenda, I asked her what the questions were. It turned out that she’s had a history of false positive test results for an STD and wanted to know if that could indicate some further problem.

Once I understood the nature of her questions, I proceeded with my usual yearly questions and exam. I stepped out of the room while she was dressing and discussed my hunch with one of my other early-rising colleagues. She confirmed my thoughts and so I suggested to my patient that we do a screening test for auto-immune diseases such as Lupus and Rheumatoid Arthritis.

As she was leaving, she said to me, “My mom has been after me to talk to my primary doctor about this, but I said to her, ‘I’m going to ask Rosellen; I know she’ll listen to me.’”

I know you’ll listen to me. Several patients have said that when I've told them that they won’t see me for their annual exam next year. I’ve decided that instead of counting down the days, I’ll try to approach each new day at work as an opportunity to better understand how I can make a difference for each person on my schedule.

It Was a Very Bad Surprise

2006-03-11T12:17:00.000-06:00

I like to think that I carry little pieces of other people’s perspectives around with me, that knowing someone and appreciating appealing pieces of their personalities is a gift that I can continue to cherish, even if they’re no longer in my life.

When we lived in Detroit, in the late 60’s-early 70’s, I became great friends with Vicki G. We had lots in common: we lived in the same high-rise apartment on the edge of downtown and our husbands were young professionals, overworked, struggling to achieve, and away from their families many more hours than most men their ages. But most of all, Vicki and I had our darling children: her Davey was several months older than my daughter, A, so we would often babysit for each other, giving each of us time away from otherwise cooped-up lives.

Vicki had a great sense of humor and liked to find special girley presents for A. Perhaps the best one was the pink plastic teething toy that Davey gave A. It was a giant engagement ring, replete with an encased liquid filled sparkley "diamond.” We’d put the 6-month-old infants down on their tummies to stare at each other and make great exertions to reach their shared assortment of toys; the engagement ring was one of their favorites.

It was from Vicki that I picked up using the term, “trick” to describe new developmental milestones. For example, “Davey’s newest trick is turning over on his belly!” or “Guess what? A has a new trick: she grabbed the ring away from Davey for a change!”

Since then, I’ve found that all new parents connect with that term and I often ask a woman at her 6-week-postpartum check what new tricks her baby is doing. Inevitably, she understands the shorthand and happily launches into great detail about the "clever” (another Vicki term) things that her baby does.

But the Vicki-ism that applies to my life today is “It was a very bad surprise.” Vicki would use that whenever Davey or A hurt themselves. I continued to use it with both A and P and even use it with Johan now. (Although I’ve discovered that he doesn’t even want me to characterize his bad experience, as though he needs to own it all himself.)

The very bad surprise in my world today is that our splendid University of Illinois Basketball Team lost to Michigan State last night at the Big Ten Tournament in Indianapolis. Dennis and I were there to witness the ignominy. If there were ever a perfect depiction of the expression, “Third time is a charm,” this was it, as the Illini defeated the Spartans twice in the last few months. Michigan State finally figured out a great defense that worked. Of course, it didn’t help the U of I’s cause that there were several crucial fumbles, miscues and general inattention to the game plan, as all of the above contributed to the unexpected loss.

However, Tom Izzo is one of my favorite coaches and his team has had an unusually frustrating season, so this truly was a case of the best team winning.

Dennis and I were fortunate enough to unload our remaining tournament tickets for $50 under face value and then had the delightful surprise that our hotel wouldn’t charge us a cancellation fee, so we came back home this morning. I’m getting ready to watch Michigan State take on Iowa in a little while, simultaneously doing loads of laundry, so it’s turned out to be a perfectly OK Saturday.

Nevertheless, it was a very bad surprise.

Another Life-Time Skill

2006-03-06T07:59:00.000-06:00

***Warning!***
If you’re offended by intimate female information, read no further. What follows is medical information that may benefit you or someone near and dear to you.

...

I’ve mentioned before that some of the skills one learns in Prepared Childbirth classes will serve in unexpected ways. One of the most useful instructions is how to do the Kegel (pronounced kay-gill) Exercise.

Named after a Los Angeles Obstetrician/Gynecologist, Arnold Kegel, who practiced in the 1950’s and who was in the vanguard of the U.S. adaptation of Lamaze Childbirth techniques, the Kegel Exercise is a life-time skill. Don’t worry—I’m not going to wade into explicit details of how to do them—but it’s a way of understanding how to control the Pubococcygeal muscles, which are the base of support for the pelvic floor.

The medical folks refer to the Pubococcygeals as the P-C muscles, which gives a whole new slant on the term PC. Both sexes are usually capable of developing good P-C control, with the most gratifying use being the tetanic-like contractions that one experiences with orgasm. The challenge for many women, though, is that often they have no idea as to how to do the Kegel Exercise in a productive manner. I sometimes examine a woman who thinks that she has good P-C control, but in reality, all she’s doing is some weird abdominal maneuver.

The reason that the Kegel Exercise is taught in childbirth classes is that good P-C control allows one to release the pelvic floor muscles, hopefully so fully that the baby’s head will rotate down on to the perineum. If the woman is fortunate enough to have a patient birth attendant, as the baby is pushing through the complex pelvic floor, the muscles will release enough to not tear or require the attendant to cut them, allowing the baby’s passage. That cutting procedure has various medical codes to describe how deeply the cut had to be made and is called an episiotomy.

A second reason for doing Kegels is improved toleration of every woman’s least favorite activity: the yearly pelvic exam. When I was in Grad School, I developed a handy little “How to Do Kegel Exercises” handout, replete with a simplified illustration of the intricate pelvic floor muscles. We still use it in our department and refer to it as the “Pink Kegel Sheet;” it’s helpful for someone who has trouble tolerating pelvic exams, because tight P-C muscles make for a very uncomfortable pelvic exam. The good examiner will usually be able to help a fearful patient release her P-C muscles, enabling her to work with the examiner rather than against him/her.

It’s the third and most useful reason for doing Kegel Exercises that I believe has potential to be the best reason for good pelvic muscle control. We’ve all seen the TV ads for Poise pads or some other “feminine protection” product that tries to present urinary incontinence as an expected consequence of aging. I’ve found that if a woman has good P-C control, she typically will not have difficulty with leaking when she coughs, sneezes or laughs. It’s not unusual for me to encounter a woman whose youngest child is 20+ years and who has been putting up with constant leaking since that child’s birth. The P-C muscles, not surprisingly, can be damaged during birth either by being stretched or torn. An associated cause for poor P-C control after birth can sometimes be traced to damaged nerves caused by a traumatic delivery. And, of course when a woman is post-menopausal, the decreased estrogen level can cause drooping pelvic muscle support.

Poor P-C control is an equal opportunity medical problem. Men can develop leaking when the muscle control is damaged during pelvic surgery, such as prostate removal. Certain medical conditions can cause incontinence for both sexes: Diabetes, Multiple Sclerosis, to name a few.

If you or your loved one isn’t sure that they’re doing the Kegel Exercise adequately, I highly recommend a health care provider’s assessment. If he/she doesn’t seem to know how to help you, move on to someone else. Sometimes there is an underlying medical problem that interferes with one’s ability to control the muscles, and a good examiner will refer patients to a specialist when needed.

But if it seems that the problem is simply related to inability to recognize the right muscles to tighten, one can have great fun getting them toned up. For women, the British call Kegels “The Internal Kiss,” and I tell my patients to enlist their partners’ assistance in their practice sessions.

As I say, Kegels are a great life-time skill.

Yet Another Life-Time Skill

2006-02-05T10:35:00.000-06:00

The semester before I started clinical classes in nursing school, I was required to take a class in Child Development. At the time, I could see the perfect logic in requiring such a class, as we would be heading into Pediatrics the next semester, where we would learn how to provide care for sick children. I also expected that the material would help me someday be a better mother. What I didn’t appreciate, though, is that understanding and appreciating developmental milestones is a life-time skill that serve one in unexpected ways.

The instructor used a powerful technique to help us remember developmental stages. She invited mothers and their young children to the class for the mother to talk and for the child to demonstrate what was unique about each age group. We started out with a mother and an infant, then at the next class, a mother with a toddler, progressing finally to a mother with her school-age child. Now, some 40 years after the course, the only mother-child pair that I remember is the mother with the toddler (FYI, for those not versed in Child Development, toddlerhood is from the age of walking to 2-3 years.) And what I remember best about that woman and her busy toddler is that she was constantly watching out for his safety as he teetered on the edge of self-injury in our un-child-proofed classroom.

I’ve been intrigued to note that I’m much more attentive to my grandson’s developmental stages than I was to my children’s. It’s been 30+ years since they were little children; now I relish and savor each new level of Johan’s intellect, personality and physical accomplishments to a depth that eluded me when I was the mother in the picture. Maybe I was distracted by all of the other pressures/demands besides motherhood that I had during those years. But maybe I was also preoccupied with my own changes during that time, doing my own major developmental work as an adult.

Which brings me to the point: Understanding and appreciating all of life’s developmental stages is rewarding study. If you haven’t had the chance, I encourage you to consider doing some reading or even a formal class studying developmental stages through the life-span. If there is an age group that seems to challenge or anger you, zero in on understanding what’s going on in their developmental stage. Sometimes you can better understand a person’s confusing behavior by having the insight that (s)he simply hasn’t accomplished appropriate developmental tasks.

Having that background will help you develop the patience and creativity to fully enjoy not only your own life, but also to better understand the little and big people that you know and/or love.

My Cottage Industry

2006-01-30T21:08:00.001-06:00

As some of my friends and most of my family know, through my years as an Ob-Gyn Nurse Practitioner, I’ve made stirrup covers for the exam tables in my offices. For those who have never had to experience the indignity of a pelvic exam, the embellishment of exam table stirrups may seem inconsequential, but I’ve found that the diversion is well worth the time and effort of maintaining entertaining stirrup covers.

Nearly every woman, as she scoots her hips down to the edge of the exam table in preparation for her yearly pap smear, complains, “I hate these exams.” Not only does she have to position her posterior off the edge of the table, but she also has to place her feet in metal stirrups that only too closely resemble the stirrups on a saddle, and swing out her knees to enable the examiner to see pertinent parts of her anatomy. If her feet are bare, as are many women’s because they had to remove their pantyhose for said exam, and if the examiner hasn’t made provision for her comfort, the cold metal stirrup is uncomfortable at best. Not as uncomfortable as is a cold metal speculum, mind you, but nevertheless, cold and uncomfortable.

There are, of course, lots of other strategies for helping women feel comfortable during exams, but it helps to have a little diversionary conversation about the current choice of the stirrup covers as one assumes The Position. Hence my interest in creating interesting stirrup covers.

The idea to create holiday themed covers evolved while I’ve been in my current job. I started out making a set for myself and then branched out to make sets for the doc with whom I work and selected ones for co-workers. The advantage to having rotating covers is that no pair becomes too ragged and each pair is washed regularly when it goes out of season. A set is comprised of a basic fabric such as floral, plus special themed patterns for each major holiday: Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter, 4th of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

More than 10 years ago, I did some preliminary testing of the market and for various reasons, didn’t proceed with serious business plans. During that time, my friend, S, came up with the name of Footsies for my creations. A year or so ago, I half-jokingly said that when I retired I hoped to make Footsies to help pay the groceries after I retire. My son interpreted my remark to mean that I didn’t have enough retirement funds to cover the food on the table. Thankfully, he clarified what I meant by gently inquiring if my retirement was in jeopardy. As I explained to him, the idea of retirement is more appealing to me if I can think of ways to still make a little money, instead of spend, spend, spend.

So, now that the retirement date is set and I have a sewing machine, a serger, a dedicated sewing room, and, most importantly, a partner who has PR, IT and accounting skills, the time is ripe to fully explore the possibilities of a Footsies business. If you’re interested in seeing what I mean, go to my website. If you’re so inclined, please give me feedback on what you think of the site and if there’s any missing or confusing information.

If you know of someone who might have an interest in purchasing footsies, please forward the website to them.

A Great Little Housewife

2006-01-02T21:36:00.000-06:00

My Aunt BL is in her mid-80’s and is one of those people for whom time has stood still. It’s an effort for her to keep her opinions to herself and my recent announcement to her that I’d be retiring in September has yielded some interesting interactions.

We usually talk weekly (she lives in North Carolina) and over the last month she has been cogitating about my reasons for retirement. Despite the fact that I’ve planned carefully and have secure finances, she believes that I should keep on working just because I can. She apparently believes that I should try to make more money, but I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps my retirement signifies to her that she’s becoming more elderly.

Yesterday she took a new tack. First, she wanted to know the exact date (September 9, 2006) that my new life will begin. Next, she wanted to know what I’d be doing with my time, all in a supportive kind of tone. However, before I could answer the question, she answered it herself, “I suppose you’ll make a great little housewife.”

A great little housewife. When I told Dennis and my daughter, they both chortled. Dennis had the perfect description of our domestic roles, saying that he and I are a housecouple. Aunt BL just doesn’t get it and I suppose she never will. Despite the fact that I kept my last name when Dennis and I were married 5 years ago, Aunt BL determinedly sends us mail addressed to Mr. And Mrs. And in her mind I’m retiring so I can spend my time cleaning house and ironing. Arghh.

Making Memories

2005-12-21T09:06:00.000-06:00

Johan and I spent last weekend together and I brought along a laundry basket full of various baking implements and supplies so we could bake Christmas cookies together. The last time I tried to bake with him, the most skillful thing he could do was pour chocolate chips into the mixing bowl. Thanks, no doubt, to his Montessori preschool, he’s moved up several levels since then; not only was he able to understand that we wouldn’t be licking our fingers, but he was also able to squeeze the scoop and dispense peanut butter cookie batter into the little muffin cups. After I unwrapped the Hershey’s kisses, Johan carefully placed the candies in the middle of each little cookie.

I hope that he and I will be able to bake Christmas cookies together lots of times, but it occurred to me that our time together last weekend was potentially something that he’ll be able to remember forever. I think that it‘s important for grandparents to actually spend time doing things with their grandchildren, rather than seeing their role as simply childcare providers, but unfortunately, I don’t have many memories of actually doing many things with my grandparents. I do remember a summer day when I picked Sweet Peas with my dad’s mother and ever since, the scent of Sweet Peas reminds me of her.

Psychologists believe that the earliest memories are those of smell. A nursing infant will most easily be calmed when it’s held by its mother. If you think about it, you probably can remember the unique smell of your mother’s and/or dad’s neck—a place that you probably spent a fair amount of time as a small infant. Smell is such a basic memory that most of us take it for granted and it’s one of my sadnesses that I’m unable to smell Johan’s precious little neck.

When he was barely two weeks old, and I was staying with my daughter to help her recover from the Cesarean, I managed to contract the worst sinus infection I’ve ever had. I think she initially thought that I was exaggerating about my pain, but after I finally managed to get some antibiotics on board and started feeling human again, I realized that I couldn’t smell anything, much less taste flavors. I could taste sweet, sour, salt and spicy hot, but couldn’t distinquish the difference between, say, tomatoes or peppers.

Today, some 3 1/2 years later, I’ve regained just a little of my ability to taste flavors, and tend to rely more on memory, texture and presentation to appreciate what food probably tastes like. Again, memory is helping with this disability, but you can’t remember something that you’ve never smelled, so I feel like I’ve been gypped in the Grandparents’ Experiences Department.

Aside from the obvious advantage of not being grossed out by ucky diapers (although that odor is finding its way back to me in a muted and transposed kind of smell,) I’ve decided that I can deal with the challenge. It’s reassuring that I now detect weird smells when something’s burning, so I don’t feel quite as vulnerable as I initially did. Dennis has helped immeasurably by his creative culinary efforts with making food as attractive as possible. And Johan and I create our memories together in other ways.

It’s Why We’re Here

2005-12-11T18:45:00.000-06:00

As much as I look forward to next September, when I retire and have a different routine, there are times now when it’s a challenge to prepare for it. It’s also a time to ponder what my career has meant to me.

Think of how it is when you move to a new community. You have to find a dentist who is kind and relatively pain-free. You have to find a grocery store that carries most of the stuff you’re used to buying. Then you have to learn where everything is so you don’t have to chase all over the place when you’re in a rush. For a woman, it means you have to find a care provider whom you trust and like enough that you’re willing to drag yourself to her/his office every year for your gynecological exam.

For nearly 15 years, I’ve been that care provider for a number of women. On a typical work day I’ll be scheduled to perform annual exams for at least 2 or 3 women whom I’ve seen before. Some women I barely remember, others I remember with dread. Then there are some whom I remember very well and look forward to seeing. These are the women who make my job worthwhile because I know that I’ve made a difference in their lives.

I’ve decided that it’s not only fair to tell those patients of my retirement plans for next fall, but it’s also an important part of my letting go of this part of my life. So, since the end of September, I’ve been telling those with whom I feel a special connection that I’ll be gone in a year when they have their next annual exam.

Their responses are interesting. The older women—those near retirement age or older—say “Good for you!” and seem to accept the news with grace and understanding. Others will react with dismay: “But who will I see next time?” as though it had never occurred to them that their relationship with me is finite. But the most interesting are those who actually tell me what my care has meant to them.

Several have said, “You always listen to me much better than my doctor.” Last week one woman actually had tears welling up as she told me that. It took longer than usual to usher her out and, of course, when she was halfway down the hall, she thought of one last thing that she needed to ask me.

When I started college in 1961, I thought that I wanted to be a music therapist, so I did two years of Music Ed, in preparation for the real stuff. However, toward the end of the second year, I finally acknowledged that I didn’t really like to play the piano, much less have the ability to “play by ear,” which are both integral skills as a music therapist.

In between my sophomore and junior years, I worked as a nurse’s aide in a local hospital and got hooked on nursing. I had always admired nurses, but my mother had steadily discouraged any further interest in the profession, her main objection being, “They’re on their feet too much and work long hours.” (Turns out she was right; now as I near retirement, my legs seem to be the most vulnerable part of my anatomy.) So, during a particularly traumatic summer when my mother was recovering from cancer and beginning to consider the attractiveness of Christian Science healing, I switched my major to nursing.

I was very aware of the financial drain it would be for my parents, as Sister#2 was just enrolling at Knox College, a private and much more expensive college than the state school that I had attended. So I offered to go to a much less expensive diploma nursing program, such as Wesley, in Chicago. As it turned out, the additional expense to my parents became a moot point when I acquired various part-time jobs that enabled me to pay for the 5th and 6th years of my undergrad education.

Despite the financial and emotional challenges that my career change meant, my parents insisted that I go to a 4 year nursing program at the University of Illinois, the cheapest option that would still net me a degree. I’ll always be very grateful to them for that, because although it meant that I’d take 6 years to get my B.S.N., it has greatly mattered throughout my professional life.

Initially I was attracted to nursing because the nurses that I knew seemed to have acquired a broad spectrum of practical knowledge. As I watched them at work, I liked the combination of talents that the good nurses seemed to have. First, they were great communicators; secondly, they had a depth of medical knowledge that was very impressive and used math (which I loved in high school.) And third, they used their hands; I really liked the idea of using my intelligence with my hands to make a difference in people’s lives.

It’s painful for me to admit, but I also knew that being a nurse would increase my chances of marrying a doctor, which it did. And I also had the inchoate sense that being a nurse would be helpful for my family, which it has. So, I’m happy to report that this has been the right career for me and that I do feel that I’ve made a difference in many lives.

During her last years, my Great-Aunt Rose lived by herself in a cold-in-the-winter, hot-in-the-summer, sparsely furnished bungelow in Naperville, Illinois. At that time, Naperville was just a quiet little town, way on the outskirts of Chicago. Aunt Rose, who never married, had lived in that house for at least 40 years with her two maiden sisters, who both predeceased her. As time went by, my dad’s sister, Aunt Alta, watched over Aunt Rose and tried to convince her to move down to Moweaqua, a little farm town in Central Illinois, to which Alta had retired. Rose refused, saying that she wanted to live on her own. No one could budge her and thanks to her penny-pinching ways and her healthy constitution, no one could think of a convincing argument to move her.

However, as often happens, things didn’t progress the way that Aunt Rose had expected; Aunt Alta passed away at the young age of 76, leaving Aunt Rose without immediate family (Alta had been her sister’s—my grandmother’s—daughter.) Since I had just moved back to Illinois to work at my current job, I offered to take on the Aunt Alta role and check up on Aunt Rose every other month or so.

By this time, Aunt Rose was in her 90’s, and independent, but only because of the almost daily kindnesses of her neighbor of many years, Evy. Evy, a retired nurse, had lived next door to Aunt Rose for as long as my family could remember. Evey filled in for me frequently, taking Aunt Rose to doctor appointments, helping with shopping, etc. They had a system of checking in each morning; if Aunt Rose had raised her tattered kitchen shade, it was a sign to Ernie, Evy’s husband, that Aunt Rose was up and at ’em.

It is from Evy, who still lives in her house, but alas, without Ernie, who passed away earlier this year, that I received a special understanding of what my career and life mean. Toward the end of Aunt Rose’s life, when I was leaving her house and needing to ask Evy to do yet another favor for Aunt Rose, I apologized for having to do so. Evy said to me in her soft, gentle, matter of fact way, “It’s why we’re here.”

It’s why we’re here. It’s such a simple concept, yet profound. And it perfectly expresses why nursing has been the right choice for me.

Another Life-Time Skill

2005-11-30T22:15:00.000-06:00

Since The Readership has been notably silent about my invitation to identify life-time skills (Sugarfoot gets a gold star for her contribution that reading is a life-time skill,) a patient that I saw today offered one up for consideration.

I had inquired about her occupation and she responded that she was working part-time, which gives her time to spend with their newly acquired horse. I asked if she had been riding very long and she said that she grew up caring for her horse and that she wants her children to have that opportunity, too.

She went on to say that feeding the horse twice a day, grooming and exercising him/her, teaches a child responsibility. That the relationship that one develops with the horse gives the child a sense of compassion. In essence, caring for a horse during childhood and adolescence is great preparation for adulthood.

I’ve never cared for a horse, but I think that we have to add this to the list.

Snapdragons

2005-11-13T08:35:00.000-06:00

The cool weather has knocked out the tender zinnias, but semi-perennials such as these thrive. I started them by seed in March and they’ve putzed along until now, when they’re finally coming into their own. I think that I’ll try to let the plants winter over—although the last time I did that with Snaps the whole crop contracted an ugly virus and shriveled up in midsummer.

Here He Is

2005-11-11T12:47:00.000-06:00

In response to P's request that he see his Chewbacca costume again, here he is, thanks to the magic wrought by my techie husband.

Life-Time Skills

2005-11-11T08:16:00.000-06:00

In my response to Kathryn's recent entry about learning to use HTML code, I noted that although I’m not familiar with it, I think that knowing such code has to be a handy life-time skill. Which led me to consider what else I believe to be life-time skills, i.e., skills learned only with lots of practice and later reincarnated to serve one in other ways.

For example, learning to type is a life-time skill that I acquired when I was in high school. In that pre-computer age, my only reason for doing it was to be able to type papers for future college assignments. Little did I know how eminently practical the skill would become some 40+ years later. Now I type, not only at home on my laptop, but am finding myself using it increasingly more often at work, as my department converts to electronic medical records.

Another category of life-time skills is sewing. My first awkward sewing projects were two corduroy skirts that my mother paid me $5 each to make for myself. It was an inspired idea on her part and it introduced me to the advantages of making my own clothes. But even more, I now have the skill to make most anything that can be sewn—often as presents for family and friends.

A third set of life-time skills are prepared childbirth techniques. I tell my patients that learning to distract oneself using relaxation and effleurage will stand them in good stead for years to come. Whenever I have invasive dental work, which I absolutely hate (having endured 3 teen-age years of orthodontia,) I use both techniques to help me get through the pain.

I could go on and on, but I’d like to know what my Readership see as life-time skills--

The Devil Cometh

2005-11-05T20:30:00.000-06:00

P's Costume Age 6

By popular request, Dennis has recreated an image of P in his Devil’s costume. I was able to purchase a used duplicate of the pattern that I used, so in case Johan or one of his cousins wish to be a devil at age 6, I’ll be able to create the outfit again.

I’m still puzzling as to what we did with P’s original devil costume. My best guess is that we passed it on to another family after he refused to be embarrassed yet another year by a fake pitchfork on his chest.

The Batman Cometh

2005-10-25T20:33:00.000-05:00

Continuing the tradition that we started two years ago when I made a brown flannel puppy costume for Johan to wear at Halloween, I created a Batman costume for him last weekend. His gossamer wings are the best feature of the costume. He likes to shake his arms, making the wings shimmer wildly.

Calling All Bibliophiles

2005-10-15T14:45:00.000-05:00

Yiddish Book Center

One of the reasons that I enjoy visiting my daughter is that she and her husband always have fascinating books laying around. I hasten to add, however, as a dedicated Mormor, my most pressing reason to visit Anna and Aage is to see my precious grandson. Anyway, a while back Anna mentioned that Aage had found a new book for her in Border’s that she thought I’d like.

Was she ever right. If you love books and have never read “Outwitting History,” by Aaron Lansky, do yourself a favor and get a copy. It’s subtitled “The Amazing Adventures of a Man Who Rescued a Million Yiddish Books,” and is the story of how Lansky, along with friends, started a worldwide effort to save Yiddish books and, as a consequence, prevented the demise of Yiddish language. He’s an entertaining writer with a worthy cause.

While we were out East several weeks ago, we managed to cram in a visit to the National Yiddish Book Center, which is situated on the edge of Hampshire College in Amherst, Massachusetts. (This was right before all of the flooding, so I’m worried as to the current state of the Book Center.) The place is just as fascinating as is Mr. Lansky’s book. As the name implies, it’s a museum about Yiddish, but it’s so much more, as it tells the story of how Yiddish evolved and why it’s so important to preserve the large body of works that at one time were thought to have been discarded.

I’m currently on a campaign to entice CBS Sunday Morning to do a feature on it and to also bring Mr. Lansky to Champaign-Urbana to tell his story. At the Center, I noted several local connections: The University of Illinois Library has been one of the recipients of Yiddish books from the Center and the local Yiddish Club of Champaign-Urbana contributed funds for its establishment.

In planning the building for the Book Center, which was to become home to original texts and/or copies of all extant Yiddish literature, the idea was to evoke the image of an Eastern European Synagogue, none of which survived World War II. Most people agree that the goal was beautifully achieved, as evidenced above.

The spaces inside are just as charming. The entryway feels like a friendly foyer; the lighting is soft, the walls are framed in bare wood, the exhibits beckoning. It was a difficult decision as to which way to head first. Overhead, instead of Muzac, one is entertained by Klezmer tunes. For a change, there is no charge for admission and one is welcome to take pictures, so we took advantage of that freedom.

Rescued Books

If you choose to walk directly ahead, you realize that you’re actually on a balcony, looking down to the collection of Yiddish books that are available for purchase.

Receiving Area

From that vantage point you can also see the receiving area, with stacks of assorted half opened boxes holding books that have been sent to the Center. Sadly, one can also see a security screening device, just like those used at the airport, to screen boxes for explosives before opening them.

If you go to the right, you’re drawn into a room with a large to-scale replica of a wooden Synagogue in the middle of the room, with descriptions of the original plans and location of the building, which was in Poland. We wandered through other equally fascinating exhibits for about for an hour and a half and would have liked to linger longer, but needed to head back home that afternoon.

Polish Synagogue

Even as a person of non-Jewish heritage, I was entranced by the rich historical value of all of the National Yiddish Book Center's opportunities. If you’re interested in learning more about the effort, visit their website. But do be sure to read the book.

Movin' Out

2005-10-06T08:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was our day at the theater. We had tickets ahead of time for The Odd Couple with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick and for Movin’ Out, which we thought was a review of Billy Joel music done by a young singer and piano player. We were right, but soooo wrong.

First of all, if you ever visit NYC to go to shows, you need to file the Edison Hotel away in your mind. Its front door is on 47th Street, its back door is on 46th Street and it’s half a block west of Broadway. It was built in 1931 and the lobby is in genuine Art Deco style; the rooms are more reasonable prices than any of the other Broadway area hotels. Our tickets for the matinee yesterday were at 256 W. 47th Street, about 4 doors west of our front door and the 8:00 tickets were at 226 W. 46th Street, literally across the street from our hotel’s back door. Dennis, who made the hotel arrangements, knew that we would be close to the shows, but somehow didn’t appreciate the genius of our location. The bonus, as though anything more could be wished for, is that the Café Edison, a well worn diner-type place off the Lobby, offers eastern European fare at modest prices for the neighborhood; actors refer to it as the Polish Tea Room. There are also several cocktail lounges, and at least one upscale restaurant, but we were loyal (and wish we would have had time to try more offerings) to the Café Edison.

From the beginning, this visit to NYC has been charmed. On Tuesday, ten minutes after our train from Connecticut passed over a Bronx intersection, a semi-trailer loaded with fuel exploded, killing the driver and knocking out power to the New Haven-New York City train line. Yesterday Amtrak managed to jerry-rig a push-pull arrangement of the trains going north, so we’ve changed our departure time today to allow for the extended travel time. Dennis’ sister, Cathy, will pick us up in northern Connecticut tonight and tomorrow we’ll drive back to Illinois.

Anyway, back to the day at the theater. Dennis went down to scope out the street scene before the Matinee and called on his cell phone to tell me that there was a huge line of folks waiting to go into the theater, and that they all had tickets for the show. As we were puzzling over this strange crowd behavior, Dennis said something to someone passing by, something like, “Would you say hello to my wife?”

He had just recognized Matthew Broderick hurrying into the theater. Dennis pointed at him, Matthew pointed back as Dennis was talking to him, and then Matthew said, “Sorry, I can’t, I’m late for work.” He did graciously shake Dennis’ hand as he hurried off. I’d be willing to bet that most of us, confronted unexpectedly with a celebrity, would just gape, but there was Dennis, with his wits about him. It reminds me of the time he struck up a conversation with the Governor of Illinois in a restaurant bathroom, but that’s another story.

The Odd Couple was entertaining; Nathan Lane was his usual comic self and Matthew was in one of his frump roles. He seems to like taking on strange speech patterns, and in this role he talks with a lisp. In short, it was a lark to get to see them together again, but in retrospect, it was classic Neil Simon with not much depth.

Movin’ Out, however, was a fully intact, forceful piece of Broadway artistry. First of all, there is the young singer, Michael Cavanaugh, who could be a clone for Billy Joel. His singing and piano playing are genuine and he’s backed by a great bunch of musicians who are all showcased by their perches on a heavy metal scaffold that raises and lowers as space is need on stage.

Then there’s the staging by Twyla Tharp. The dancers are all classically trained in ballet, but this is ballet with an edge. It’s easily the most energetic, intense performance I’ve ever seen. In reviewing the program, I note that the leads are played by different dancers in the Wednesday and Sunday matinees, which I’m relieved to hear. The dancers’ performances are so strenuous, that even for trained athletes, it wouldn’t be medically wise to do two performances in one day.
We had tickets in the second row, so good that I could see one woman’s abdominal scar. I said earlier that we thought this was a review of Billy Joel’s music, which it was, but it was similar to Mamma Mia, in which there are a series of pieces tied loosely together with a theme. The dancers had few lines, most of their expression was with their bodies, and the theme was about relationships before and after Vietnam. The theater wasn’t filled, the show closes in December, and if you haven’t seen this yet (I’m thinking of you, Leta,) you must see it!

We’ll have brunch at our favorite spot downstairs before we catch the 1:00 train to New Haven, then tomorrow head back to Illinois. This visit to NYC has been a delectable treat.

Cross One More Thing Off My Life Experience List

2005-10-05T08:11:00.000-05:00

Decades have elapsed since I last participated as a member of a nationally broadcast program. I was a knobby-kneed Girl Scout in the 1950’s when my troop visited Don MacNeil’s Breakfast Club in downtown Chicago one early weekday morning. I have vague memories of going down into a basement and filing en masse around the breakfast table as it were (there was no breakfast to be had and instead of going around a table we marched around the room.) But maybe it was an Arthur Godfrey show? The details are sadly lost to the ages.

However, the details of my recent participation on The David Letterman Show will be with me always. Whenever I’ve been in New York City over the last 15 years, I’ve regretted that I hadn’t had the foresight to think ahead and organize passes to the show. Knowing that we would be in NYC to see two Broadway shows (more about them in my next post,) Dennis inquired last summer and then, per directions, applied in early September for two passes to the show on Tuesday, October 4, 2005. Someone from the show called last week and asked Dennis a trivia question (“What’s the name of the red haired guy on the show?”) which Dennis successfully answered. It apparently mattered that he had the correct answer. We were telling some acquaintances who applied for tickets and when they were asked, “Who’s Alan Kalder?” were unable to come up with the answer. Their names were placed on a reserve list and they were never called to be on the show. Anyway, Dennis was told that we needed to report to the ticket office between 3:00 and 4:00 the afternoon of the show to pick up our tickets and to state that we were on the Adam’s Gold List.

Knowing that forgetting that we were on the Adam’s Gold List could spell the difference between getting in or being denied entry to the show, we quizzed each other periodically over the last week so we wouldn’t forget the all-important code.

We showed up at 3:05 yesterday afternoon and had to go to the end of a very long line of folks waiting for their tickets. It was then that we began to appreciate the art and science of crowd control employed by the Letterman Show. After waiting in line for 15 minutes and then showing our picture ID’s, we entered the theater lobby in small groups and were first divided into one of two lines: Adam’s Gold or Bethany’s something. I pointed out to Dennis that this was simply the A list and the B list. Our names were on the A list and we were given official tickets with hand-written numbers, then shepherded back to the outer lobby, where we were penned until there were about 30 of us. There we got our first lesson in yelling loudly, which we discovered is an expected behavior for a Letterman guest. We also got instructions to return exactly at 4:30, so we could be in time for the 5:30 taping, and to line up exactly in sequence according to our ticket numbers and to stand in the yellow section.

When we returned at 4:25, we found the yellow guide tape and stood patiently for another 15-20 minutes while our fellow yellow tapers found their places. At one point, the guy standing in back of us said something about the Cardinals; I asked him where they were from and he said, “Illinois.” With further questioning, we discovered that they live in Champaign, too, and that his wife works at the same clinic that I do. We didn’t recognize each other and never did fully introduce ourselves.

Next we filed into the lobby in tight 2-by-2 Noah’s Ark Style rows, and stood until 5:00, when they finally let us into the studio’s auditorium. During our time in the lobby we were instructed in which sounds not to make (whistles, high pitched yells, moans, etc.) and the usual instructions re: no cell phones, cameras, or recording devices. We also had further tutelage in appropriate enthusiastic laughter, applause, yelling, etc. Our guides in all of the pre-program preparations were young preppie types, the kind of folks who have recently been their schools’ cheer leaders. Once seated in the auditorium, they continued the effort to keep us loud and excited; I noted that several of the young women were so physically involved in their cheering that they should have no physiologic need to go to aerobics classes, as much exercise as they get on the job.

We were seated in the 6th row from the front, over on the far left (looking from the stage) aisle, so the view was somewhat obstructed by the various cameras and gear, but nevertheless, it was very interesting to see the stage set-up. A warm-up comedian/host further coached us in what to expect during the taping process and also entertained us in a non-irritating manner. Often I’m put off by the warm-up comics, but this guy did his job very nicely. The band members were introduced to us one by one and did some warm-up playing before the show started; they were also consistently very entertaining, besides being terrific musicians.

Dave came out about 5 minutes before the taping began and did his own little warm-up with us, then they effortlessly flowed into the taping. There were no 2nd tapings of segments and during commercial breaks, they put up funny scenes from previous shows on the monitors over the stage to keep the natives from becoming restless. During the commercials the set was a hodge-podge of casually dressed assistants (some even in Bermudas) hovering around Dave or Alan Kalder. During the broadcast, assistants held up cue cards, just as is done in Tootsie. I found myself laughing much louder than I usually do, much more often than I usually do and certainly clapping like I never do. Everyone around us seemed to fall into the same behavior patterns as well.

The taping was completed, as promised, shortly after 6:30 and we were released in normal milling style (no organized exiting was required) out into the twilight of Broadway. I watched part of the show later and could appreciate how the audience’s participation is such an essential part of the production, but very forced when you actually study it. It would be a very different production if it weren’t for the prodigious coaching that goes into the audience’s preparation.

Would I do it again? Probably not. We had to hurry up and wait (on our feet) for long periods of time and provide free services. However, I can now cross the Letterman Show off my list of Things To Do.

Newborn Porcupines

2005-09-13T18:17:00.000-05:00

Newborn Porcupines
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

Adds a whole new dimension to 'labor pain'

Now We're on Five Lists

2005-09-09T08:18:00.000-05:00

I did get the sewing room pretty well shoveled out; there are just a few finishing touches that I need to do before I present you with the before and after pictures.

We wonder when we'll finally meet our new family. This blog will document how long our wait from the first sign-up to arrival of a family in need will be. As any conscious American knows, all of the pain, frustration and delay of help to the displaced is a wake-up call to our disaster preparedness. It helps me better understand where I want to place my priorities when I retire.

Our Local Red Cross, the group that we first contacted, is organizing local mass housing, yet another way to "ghettoize" the poor families who are most affected by this tragedy. And their official spokesperson advised me that they have no current plans to place folks in private housing. That way, locals can keep their homes free of the riff-raff and just throw money at them...of course, she didn't say that, but that's how the plan reads to me.

So, we've signed up on the following additional lists: shareyourhome.org, Episcopal Relief and Development, katrinahousing.org, katrinahomes.org. I'm beginning to wonder if we should just hop in a van and drive down and swoop a family out of a shelter.

We're on the List

2005-09-05T06:40:00.000-05:00

Figuring that we'd really like to make a difference in the relief effort down south, D and I contacted our local Red Cross Saturday night, offering our "guest suite" (a bedroom, a sewing room that can be compressed so that it's a kids' room, and a bathroom) upstairs to a displaced family. I was pleasantly surprised to receive an email response first thing yesterday morning.

It was thought-provoking to answer the basic questions that the Red Cross asked about our home and our preferences; this as a first step in assigning a family to us. Besides the predictable stuff about number of people that we can accommodate, handicap accessibility, etc., there was one section that amused me. See the questions and my responses below:

Q: Do you have pets?
A: We have a cat who has a history of not sharing his turf with other animals. He's a Maine Coon Cat and if a family dislikes or is allergic to cats, we are definitely not the home to send them to.

Q: Can the people bring pets?
A: We regret that we can't welcome another animal.

I'm particularly sorry that we can't offer a family with pets a home, as I understand how a pet becomes a family member. My daughter asked me recently why we keep Peanut, our aggressive cat, when he has the obnoxious tendency to nip one's feet/ankles while one is on the phone. He does have his redeeming qualities, I replied, although sometimes it seems that the negatives outweigh the positives. It's certain that he's good for lots of entertainment, although he's such a wimp that when Johan visits, Pea spends more than his usual amount of time in the basement, out of range of 3-year-old hands.

We took him in more than 3 years ago when D surprised me by saying that he thought we should get a cat. I've always had a fascination for big cats and when I saw the ad in the clinic newsletter about a Maine Coon Cat needing a new home, we bit the bait. Peanut lived with his owner in a little 2-room apartment in Rantoul, which is where we went to pick him up. The guy, a blue collar type, was miserable about having to give him up. He explained that he was moving in with his girlfriend soon and that Peanut was an ungracious guest when they introduced him to her cat. We figured that it must be true love if the guy was giving up his cat for a woman.

He cried as he held Peanut and told him goodbye. He turned over all of Peanut's toys, special food dishes, litter house, travel box and bags of food, as though he was trying to erase all evidence of Pea in his life. We asked why such a big cat (he weighs about 11 1/2 pounds) was named such so incongruously, and he explained that Pea had been the runt in his litter the year before. When we took the last piece of Peanut Paraphernalia out to the car, the man's apartment looked deserted.

Pea spent the first 2-3 days in our basement. I almost thought that he'd died down there, but eventually he made sneak explorations upstairs. He had never been an outside cat, so it was heaven for him to have three floors to explore. Several days after we picked him up, the guy called and asked if he could come see Peanut in his new home. We were thrilled to hear from him and gave them private time out on the back porch. The man was crying again when he left and we've not heard from him since.I grew up with cats in the house: one of my most memorable moments as a teen involved a 6-week-old kitten. I was dressed for school, with the requisite (this was the early 60's) hose and skirt outfit, when I was headed toward the kitchen. The kitten pulled a sneak attack right up my leg, using my hose as the ideal tree substitute. I let fly with several choice invectives, shocking my mother, who apparently thought that I didn't know any swear words. Little did she know.

But back to the preparations. I'm going to celebrate Labor Day by shoveling out the sewing room, in preparation for our almost certain guests. I'll take before and after pictures, so you can appreciate the extent of my labors.

The Quilt That Took 50+ Years to Complete

2005-09-04T17:50:00.000-05:00

Quilt on Chair
Originally uploaded by Rosellen's Flickr.

During the time that my family disassembled my Grandma H’s home, I found a treasure tucked away in the bottom drawer of her bedroom dresser. It was a muslin bag containing beginnings of pieced quilts; I remember two partially completed projects, but there may have been other scraps as well. I showed my mother the pieces and she immediately recognized one of the panels as being constructed of fabrics of dresses that she wore during childhood and adolescence. My Grandma was the queen of recycling, and was adept at turning even chicken feed sacks into dresses for her daughters during the Great Depression. My mother dutifully continued that tradition; it was a longstanding joke in our four-girl family that if one of us was outgrowing a skirt, Mother would put a ruffle on it to yield a few more months of wear.

I was particularly charmed by the brightly colored 2” squares that comprised that piece; it wasn’t large enough to make into a quilt yet, but it was at least 3’ x 5’, which gave me enough fabric to conjure up various projects. My sister Marilyn, who’s a quilter, was able to identify many of the patterns as being popular in the 1930’s and 1940’s. That following Christmas I made throw pillows for Mother, Aunt BL and Marilyn with 8”x10” panels of the fabric, framed by polished cotton outer panels. My aunt, who didn’t know about my treasure, became tearful as she examined the old familiar fabrics on her pillow.

The second quilt top was an almost completed 9-square slate blue and white piece. It was full bed size, but it appeared that there was missing final fabric edging. Most curiously, it was constructed of a combination of recycled slate blue pieces that were frequently cut on the bias and/or had seams at oblique angles. There apparently had been enough blue and white polka dotted fabric to use at the edges, as that wasn’t pieced as strangely. Although I liked the color scheme, I had no idea what I’d do with the piece, so I stuffed it away in my stash to use someday.

Someday came at 2 a.m. yesterday. Awake on and off until then, I decided that it was time to use the blue and white pieced quilt top. Marilyn had emailed me the day before about a quilter’s association in Houston, Texas, that had put out a call to all quilters. It was a plea to send sheets, blankets, but most of all, handmade quilts to pass out to the displaced in shelters there.

As have most of us, I’ve been racking my brain to think of what I could do to help in the disaster down south. On Wednesday afternoon, as things started sounding more and more desperate in New Orleans, I decided that I should investigate the possibility of going down there to offer my nurse practitioner skills. I ran the idea by my manager and she was coldly impressed by the idea: “Who would take your patients? There’s no one extra in the department to pick up the slack, etc, etc, etc.” She obligingly said she’d run it by her manager, but I knew what the answer would be. That night on the evening news, I learned that our clinic/hospital was sending down an emergency response team, complete with 2 ER docs, 7 ER nurses, ER techs and an administrator. With them was a trailer for their lodging, a trailer holding supplies and a 3rd trailer containing equipment to set up a 90 bed field hospital. When I heard that, I felt that I was off the hook, professionally, at least for awhile. The next morning, before my manager could give me her answer, I told her that I was rescinding my request. After all, the last thing I want to do right now is lose my job, with one year to go before I retire.

So anyway, in the pitch black of Saturday morning, I had the lights blazing in my sewing room. I had to patch together remnants of 3 partially used sheets of polyfill for the batting, but I had a perfectly good bed sheet that I’d salvaged from Aunt A’s linen closet for the lining and edging. The quilt went together fairly easily, especially since I wasn’t aiming for perfection; imperfection, in fact, was a forgone conclusion, as the 9-patch sections had some wildly miscalculated seams.

By 10:30 a.m., it was finished: a quilt for a single size bed, just the right size for someone’s cot in Texas. I packed it up, along with 6 rarely used sheets, 3 freshly washed blankets, and my son’s favorite Sesame Street quilt from childhood. Because of the 3-day weekend, the boxes won’t be delivered until Tuesday, but there wasn’t an alternative.

On the back of the quilt, I stenciled the following note:

Top Pieced by
Elsie
Decatur, Illinois
Circa 1950

Quilt constructed by
her grandaughter
Rosellen
Champaign, Illinois
September, 2005

Berry Time

2005-08-15T21:25:00.000-05:00

My red raspberries are entering their second bearing of the summer a little early this year. Usually I'm still picking a few stragglers at the first frost (3rd-4th week of October here in Central Illinois,) but this year they're coming on much earlier than usual. We've had rain on and off for the last 2 days and the berries are setting their own records with this crop. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that the largest ones that I picked this evening were an inch in diameter!

The canes that I grow are called "Heritage" and have the charming habit of bearing their heads off on the new canes of the summer, with the largest and most prolific crop (the crop that I'm beginning to harvest now) and then, after having those tips pruned off, will bear again along new side branches early next summer, just in time for 4th of July raspberry desserts. At that point, when the canes have borne two crops, they're ready to be cut out, which gives the next generation of canes more room to spread their lovely leaves.

This year the leaves haven't been so lovely, thanks to the obnoxious Japanese Beetles, who love to gnaw lacy holes through the raspberry leaves. Thankfully, the canes seem to have enough energy to ignore their ravaged leaves and go ahead and produce the new crop without interruption.

I picked 2+ pints tonight. D likes to think in terms of what I could sell them for at Schnuck's, our local grocery store, and according to his calculations, 2+ pints would be worth more than $10. This is just the start of this crop, though. We had a yield of about 70 pints with the first crop earlier this summer. I'll take these to work tomorrow to give to a co-worker who saved berry containers for me.

When I figure out how to post pictures here, I'll show you a picture of the patch.

Hello There!

2005-08-13T10:38:00.000-05:00

While perusing a gift shop in Mendocino, California, I came across a T-shirt that said:

"From the earth we are formed, to the earth we return, and in between we garden."

Unfortunately, I talked myself out of investing in the T-shirt (seems to me they didn't have the baggy size I prefer,) but I scribbled the quote down on a scrap of paper. I've since cross-stitched it and hung it in our dining room and trust that my family will remember to pull it out for my wake someday. I hasten to add that I have no premonition of dying soon, but I do have a strong sense of my own mortality and just want to do my final party up well.

So, I'll use this blog as a way to communicate my experiences, observations, and memories to my family and friends, because if you think about it, wouldn't it be amazing if all of our ancestors could have had this opportunity? Someday Johan (my precious 3-year-old grandson) will be able to know his Mormor in a way that hasn't been possible until now.

My garden is my therapy, my solace and my connection with my peasant forbearers, who mostly came from Germany, but a few from England and Sweden as well. Although I can't smell the soil any more (more on that in a later post,) I get great pleasure from pulling weeds, digging in the soil and picking raspberries.

My thanks to Paul and Leta (whom I've never met, but whose blog I read often) for helping me aspire to start this project.