I heard a one minute motivational talk about drama this week.  I hate it when I hear something like that and  I recognize that it applies to me.  (Now, please, do not imagine that I am a drama queen!)

This talk was about not getting sucked into other peoples‘ drama; not reacting, and perpetuating the drama; not giving any life, time or acknowledgement to the drama.

I heard this talk on the very day that drama arrived in my office….trying to suck me in. It took a few minutes to recognize what was happening and run the other way.

A friend of mine likes to say, ‘not my circus, not my monkeys.’  Yup, that drama circus will have to find another ringmaster!

Photographic Memory

People take so many photos  – photos on their phones, posted on the internet.

I have a couple of photos of my grandma as a girl, as a young woman. Not dozens or hundreds. Just two.

There are a few more of my mother and father as kids. And more of my sisters and me, but nothing like the number of photos that I have of my children – and I am not even camera-crazy.

When I look at old family  photos, I can remember the times and places, the stories that go with the photos, often told to me by older family members. There are some wild ones!

I wonder, if  constantly posting, constantly phone-photo-taking folk will remember the who-what-and-where of all their photos years from now.

I wonder if those digital photos will even survive.


I was looking for the right word to describe a feeling today.   Soothe, calm, comfort, quiet?

These verbs were close, but not quite right.  Thinking about how I wanted to describe what I was trying to express, I decided on ‘ease.’

What was I trying to describe?  The effect my dear friend has on me.

I am a low-key person. I am not easily offended. I am calm most of the time…. but there can be an inner stress, an inner anxiousness or unsettled-ness  inside. It isn’t fear or panic; it doesn’t control my day to day function – it is more of a background noise in my brain.  My dear friend has a manner that eases that background noise.

Now, my friend is not always calm, and is rarely quiet.  Yet somehow my friend’s voice and presence  eases my stress.  Now that I’ve identified the word to describe it, I wish I could identify why that is so.

Friendship part 3

While I worry about my daughter’s concept of friendship, I am not always confident in my own.  I may not be as naive as my daughter, as unsuspecting, but I am certainly just as socially awkward.

I work very hard to be the sort of friend, to my own friends, that I would like her to have as a friend. I had to read that sentence twice myself – I know it is convoluted.

In doing that, in going out of my way to be a good friend, a steady friend, a giving friend, I make sure to set boundaries. I have a certain point beyond which I will not allow someone (these would be acquaintances, not close friends) to take advantage of my kindness.  My close friends, a small but very faithful group,  I trust absolutely.

There is no higher compliment I can pay to a friend than this: I trust you.


Friendship part 2

While my daughter may not have a good handle on what  friendship is, she is convinced that she does.   She is certain, without a doubt, that she knows who her friends are.

I wish everyone was nice, everyone was kind, everyone had her best interest at heart.  I wish she had better boundaries, better common sense, less blind trust. Wishing doesn’t make it so.

I pray for her… I pray for her to have a good friend and be a good friend.  I look for ways to model good relationships for her within my small circle of friends – close friends and acquaintances.  I protect her when I can.  I comfort her when she feels betrayed.

I wonder if I could help her more if I had a better handle on friendship myself.


Friendship  from my daughter’s point of view:

If you like the same music, movies and video games, you are her friend. If you share your toys with her, you are her friend. If you like the same people, or dislike the same people, you are her friend. If you compliment her, you are her friend.   I can safely say, if you are nice to my daughter in any way, she believes you are her friend.

It would not occur to her that you might have an agenda, an evil motive for your niceness. It would not occur to her that some things cannot be taken at face value. She is not wary….she is a black and white thinker….if you are nice to her, you must be her friend.

I find this terrifying.



Well loved.

Sometimes I wonder if my daughter realizes how much she is loved. Other times, I am sure that she knows.

I was with her at family weekend. We called my parents to say ‘hello’ and to let them sing happy birthday to my daughter.  Her face lit up as she spoke with my parents, she was all smiles as she heard them sing.

At the end of the call, as she always does, my mom gives her 3 kisses. One for each dimple and one for my daughter’s cute little nose.  My daughter holds the phone up to one dimpled cheek, then the other, then up in front of her nose.  Just looking at her, watching her accept the kisses over the phone, I had no doubt.

Today, I’m sure she knows she is well loved.

The Maze

I hate going to doctor appointments in large medical buildings. And to hospitals.  I almost always get lost. Not on the way there; I navigate city streets just fine. I get lost INSIDE the buildings.

Who designs these spaces?

I understand when old buildings are expanded; long winding hallways, multiple elevator banks….

What I don’t understand is why the newer buildings are also built like mazes.

Today,  as I tried to find my doctor’s office, I was thinking it could be a great sci-fi movie: People who  don’t feel well, hopelessly lost, wandering around,  looking for the right door.  The voiceover, “Desperate for relief, they just had to keep searching.”

Maze Malaise, the movie.


I would be a really bad juggler.  I can never keep too many things in the air at once.

I was asked this morning, “How are you doing?”

I gave an honest reply – I feel like there are dozens of balls are falling around me from every direction.  I am not juggling; I am trying to decide which  balls I need to catch and which ones I can deflect or even let smash into the ground.  There is no way I can catch them all – and I recognize that.  I need to be selective.

The balls I need to catch and take care of are the ones that involve my faith, my daughter, my parents, my closest friends, my health, my job.  These are the balls that  are most important.

The others? If I can catch the ones that involve friends/acquaintances, or other volunteer opportunities,  school,  I might take care of them, too, but only if my hands aren’t already too full.

The trick is, and I am still trying to figure this part out, how to identify the balls I need to catch while they are still a good distance away, while they are still   in the air where I can catch them.


I have a very basic internet connection. Basic = cheap and fairly slow. Good enough for my old laptop. (Let’s be clear – I have internet only, no cable. I still use rabbit ears.) 

My internet connection is fast enough for emailing, blogging and facebook.  I do not work from home, beyond emails and phone calls.

My phone is NOT smart. I use it for calls and a rare text message.

When I attend school, I access the internet there with my tiny tablet, but I prefer to read real, paper-paged books.

I use technology when it suits me, but  I do not wish to be  slave to it.   I do not wish to be connected to everyone and everything all the time.

Today the internet is out here at home – on account of the rain. The outage has helped me put technology in perspective. While I use the internet and a computer at work – I do remember what it was like to work without them.

I remember phone books, encyclopedias and writing reports long hand or on a typewriter. I recall carbon paper and mimeograph machines.

I remember bookkeeping in actual journals and ledgers – very neatly written in ink. I miss that process.  Bookkeeping programs and excel spreadsheets are a poor substitute.

I remember when people kept diaries or journaled, instead of blogged, and  while I appreciate the editing capability of word processing  programs…. there is just something  so wonderful about a handwritten letter or document.


Fresh Air Nights

I am fortunate to have three large windows in my bedroom. Two of those are sheltered by a large maple tree. When I open them at night, I feel like I am sleeping outdoors.

Add my remote control fan, and I am in fresh-air heaven. Warm sticky nights are easily tolerated with the fan.

Cooler nights, night so cool that the fan is unnecessary – those are the nights I love. 

Rain or clear, the cool , clean air rushes in, under its own breezy power, through the open windows. The cotton sheets reflect the cool, clean comfortableness, and it coaxes me to sleep. On those cool nights, I rarely awaken before morning. And when I do awaken, my body feels rested and ready for the day.

Air conditioning, while providing cool, doesn’t provide that same clean, fresh air satisfaction.  I love fresh air nights.


Little Debbie

I am taking a snack to family weekend in celebration of my daughter’s birthday. I was delighted to hear  that there are no allergy issues that require accommodation in our little group.

I was also delighted that Little Debbie snack cakes were an acceptable cupcake alternative.

Why was I delighted? My daughter loves  Debbies, but rarely gets to eat them.

I chose Debbies with sprinkles, pink and blue frosting and filling. They have that unicorn/mermaid, little girl appeal. (We will have real cupcakes or cake when we celebrate with just family – my son, daughter, and I.)  These snack cakes are individually wrapped, and not particularly messy.

In a perfect world, I would bake her a red velvet cake – I would bake it and decorate it to her sprinkly preference – but while there are not allergies to consider at family weekend,  there are germ-phobic kids, kids who would want to touch every cupcake before choosing one , kids who would count the sprinkles to make sure there were the same number on each cupcake,  and parents who want to know every ingredient.

Little Debbie made my life easy this weekend with uniformly frosted, sprinkled, and prepackaged snacks – with the ingredients listed on the box.

There is one thing that bothers me about Debbies: A friend’s voice (a friend with whom I dieted very successfully back in the day – could it be 40 years ago?) saying, “Little Debbies make big Debbies.”  That is true, but only if you eat too many!



At the end of July, 2020, I intend to retire.  I cannot hear that sentence often enough.

Retirement doesn’t mean I will stop working and sit on my butt. No, I have work to do on my house, I have family to spend more time with – my parents and children.  I plan to continue auditing classes at the Univ. of Akron, spend a ridiculous amount of time at the local library, and I expect to work somewhere 10-12 hours a month, just to keep my budget in good working order.

There are other things I want to do – such as occasionally sleep in. Right now, sleeping in means 6:30am.  I want to sleep until 9:00 – I’m a wild woman, right?  And I want to linger over my second, or third, cup of coffee and read the paper in the morning, instead of after work in the evening.

Thinking that I will be the master of my own time is not realistic, I know. Life happens. Appointments need to be kept. But right now, that is the plan….to spend much of my time as I please, without wasting it.

Just fourteen months – retirement is coming up fast.




I am not a hugger.

I wish I was, but I am not.  I cringe when people, people I don’t know that well, decide they are going to hug me.

I gladly hug my kids, my parents, a couple of my closest friends. When I was married, I hugged my husband, and I liked that a lot – but. of course, that is a different kind of hug altogether.

A friend of mine hugs everyone, in a genuinely affectionate way (affectionate – you can read that as ‘not in any way creepy, questionable or inappropriate’). 

Hugging, as a simple expression of affection, is a skill I truly envy.

Well, maybe ‘skill’ is not the right word. ‘Talent?’ ‘Natural ability?’ I don’t know what to call it.  I just know I don’t have it.

Peanut butter blues.

I used to like peanut butter. A lot.

I liked it with jelly, honey, marshmallow fluff, bananas, raisins…even with dill pickles or tuna. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches grilled in garlic butter – don’t knock it until you try it.

My love of peanut butter could have resulted in a really bad Dr. Seuss-type story: “I would eat it with a fox, in a box, wrapped in socks….” you know the story I mean.

When my son was in grade school, I had an assignment to make peanut butter/tortilla roll-ups as a snack for about 120 kids – this was back in the days before peanut butter allergies made peanut butter a no-no for kids’ snacks.

I worked hard on the snacks, spread the peanut butter, rolled them up neatly, and tied them with fruit leather to look like scrolls. All identical. All smelling of peanut butter.

Peanut butter – It is a smell I have not been able to stand since that long day of snack preparation. I would like to like it again – it’s an easy sandwich to make for lunch – but the smell makes me feel sick.

It’s funny how things you once loved can become detestable. “I would not eat it in the rain, on a bus or on a train. I hate it now, I can’t explain.”

Aging Gracefully

It’s  a lovely expression: Aging gracefully.

Those who know me will tell you this – I don’t do anything gracefully.

I am known for tenacity, reliability, practicality  – you get the idea.

I was a clumsy kid, an awkward teen….for a couple of years, as a young adult, I managed to  walk very nicely in high heels….but those days are gone.

I’m clumsy and awkward again.

Even in sneakers, I manage to trip, misstep and stumble.  (My first reaction is always to look around and check if anyone saw me. Why do I do that!?!)

When I hear people talk about ‘aging gracefully,’ I laugh. We don’t do that here!

The Remote Control Fan

I have a fan in my bedroom window; it blows both in and out, on several settings. This fan makes it possible for me to avoid turning on the air conditioner most of the time.

I inherited this fan from my aunt.  I like window fans, but I wondered, ‘Who needs a remote for a fan?”   It seemed frivolous, a frilly add-on.

Well, the answer is, “Me.” I need a remote control for a fan.

At night, when I wake up because it has cooled considerably, I push the button to turn it off – without getting out of bed.

What I once thought was silly, I now consider genius. Funny how that is.

Sometimes the smallest things have a wonderful impact on our lives.  I  won’t rush to judgment next time some quirky thing I didn’t expect comes my way.


Birthdays at Residential

I’ve written about Christmas at residential facilities.  Birthdays are different there, too. Subdued in comparison to the family birthdays celebrated at home. Staff approval is required for all gifts; my daughter’s name has to be on every item.

If my daughter is eligible to go out, my son and I will take her to lunch before she opens her gifts from our family.

If she isn’t eligible to go out, we’ll bring in lunch, including celebratory cupcakes, and watch her open her gifts. NO CANDLES!

What determines eligibility? It’s simple – yet so hard for her: no violent outbursts, safe behavior toward her peers, staff and self.


I saw my very dear friend  for lunch.   Our visit was short but pleasant.

The conversation ranged from good-old-days to a recent funeral. No awkward silences, constant  chatter.

After we went our separate ways, I had time to consider the things that I left unsaid…things I had wanted to say.

There always seems to be more to say than there is time to say it.

Or am I just too cowardly to speak up?

Are my thoughts better left unsaid?

I  don’t know.

I really don’t know.

I do know I have an unrelated song stuck in my head (it got stuck there a couple days before our lunch) – a song I now associate with my friend and my questions about the things I left unsaid.

The lyrics aren’t about that at all, but yet they somehow seem to fit my mood: “Limelight,” Alan Parsons Project:  “I can see the world in a different light Now it’s easy to say Where I went wrong What I did right I can hear the beat of a different drum…”

Loch Ness Monster

Today, while putting away my clean laundry, I had the tv on for background noise. (Quest channel 3-4 with my antenna.) I had no idea there were so many lakes ( in USA, Canada, Iceland, Scotland) with lake-monster legends. I don’t know if there are giant creatures in the lakes. I do know that none of the photos on these shows  clearly showed one.

My mind wandered while the shows (yes, I had that much laundry to fold and put away that I watched several shows) droned on in the background.

This is how my thoughts went:

If there are ‘Nessies,’ would they be good to eat and would they taste like chicken? Wasn’t there a movie about something like that?

Are they fish, amphibians, or reptiles? Mammals, maybe? Oh, I’m glad they are not giant bugs or lobsters! Worms?  Oh, please, not worms!

Are they all related? Cousins, identical cousins…you can lose your mind when cousins are two of a kind. (Yes, I was humming the theme from the Patty Duke Show!)  

Or are species specific to each location? Whoa – multiple sea monster species!

Do they make any sound? There were a lot of ‘sightings’ but no reports of sound.

Do they have rows of teeth like sharks? or fangs like snakes? What about tusks? Tusks would be spectacular.

Do they ever get hit by boats like manatees do? Manatees don’t seem very bright.

Could Nessie beat Godzilla? (I would watch that!) I need to watch “The Waterhorse” again.  And “The Freshman!” – that’s the name of the movie where everything tastes like chicken.

Do they have some remarkable kind of camouflage like squids or chameleons? That would really be cool. Color-changing sea monsters! Ooh!

I imagine they  laugh at us trying to find them…since they are all said to be very large, but few humans ever see them.  They must  be smarter than humans; definitely smarter than manatees.

I remember as a kid watching a kid’s show about Beany and Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent….maybe Cecil lives! I had a Cecil toy; he had disguises, to camouflage himself.…like a green felt, Mr. Potato Head, serpent puppet.  I wonder what happened to that Cecil puppet?

Try reading the list very fast like a long, breathless, run-on sentence – that is the way thoughts sound in my head. My thought processes are far scarier than any “sea monster!”


I work on my posts on weekend evenings and schedule them a few days, even two weeks, ahead of time. I have time on the weekends (Have you heard, “Another Saturday Night” on the oldies station?) so that’s when I sit down at the computer and type. On weekends when I visit my daughter, and she can’t come to the hotel with me, I have hours to fill by myself.

Sometimes, I will have a list of ideas from which to work. A tiny notebook in my purse, or scraps of paper in my pockets. Other times, there is just a lot going on in my life…frantic paced busy-ness, frustration, friendships and family. (While some think my life is not busy enough, I can assure you it has all the scheduled activity I can handle.) My mind never stops….thinking, reading, planning…only prayer-time is quiet in my head.

Writing has always allowed me to move ideas out of my head (I think sometimes I will run out of space in there!) onto paper. If I write it down, fully developed, I don’t have to remember it.

Whether or not anyone reads it, doesn’t matter (although I do enjoy the comments I receive) because I write for myself. It is a healthy outlet; a good way to process my thoughts about a lot of subjects. It allows me to indulge in extended metaphors and exercise my vocabulary. It is a pleasure taken just for myself.

Sweet Tribute

Sometimes my daughter just blows me away.

I often feel my daughter is so very self-focused, that her world is so terribly small. Then – POW – she hits me with the most thoughtful, most unexpected suggestion.

She asked me “When was Aunt J’s birthday?” “December 8, 1925” I replied.
“You know what we should do on December 8?” she continued. “We should go to Dairy Queen and eat ice cream.”

Aunt J. was the queen of all things sweet and sugary…she never met a candy or dessert she didn’t like.

My daughter went on to explain that her earliest memory of Aunt J. was a trip to Dairy Queen. She told me everything she remembered about that day…it was quite a lot. Like I said, sometimes my daughter just blows me away.

It pleases me so much that she has happy, meaningful memories packed away in her mind somewhere.

Come December 8, you’ll know where to find me – and my daughter, if she’s able to go out.


My daughter will be eighteen soon.  There won’t be any changes; she will remain at school and in the juvenile system until she graduates…hopefully around age nineteen.

Even so, I find it hard to believe that she is eighteen.  It seems that she was so recently a chubby, toothless baby; a sturdy toddler; an agitated grade-schooler….it doesn’t seem possible that eighteen years have gone by!

I remain hopeful for her future, but I no longer try to figure out what that future will look like. There are too many variables, too many factors over which I have no control.

What I do have control over is this: I will always be her mom, and as long as I live, I will do whatever I can to make her life better.


Sugar ants

“Sugar ants” – I don’t know if that is the real name of the very tiny black ants that are harassing me, but that is what I call them.

They used to harass my next door neighbor every year – the neighbor whose house was so clean you could have eaten off the floor. (That is a very strange expression, isn’t it?) Since my neighbor’s house was so clean and the ants came through her kitchen on a regular basis, I am not embarrassed by the appearance of these ants in my kitchen.

Last year I tried to poison them in a variety of ways, in the kitchen, outside and in the basement. (I am careful not to poison the dogs or myself.) I  also tried home remedies to repel them – cinnamon, mint, talc…all of these efforts seemed to work short term, but after a few days, a new crew of ants would come to explore again.

There are only a few at a time – criss-crossing the empty counter, looking for sweets.  Occasionally wandering over to the stove  to explore.  I decided last year that I would pay an exterminator if they started harassing me again this year.

I killed two scouts today and put talc out again. If any others venture into my territory, I will call in reinforcements.

Self Reliance

I like to do things myself whenever possible.  I am pretty good at fixing things around the house, but even so, there are jobs that are beyond my skill, strength and agility level. I know my limits; I recently had someone replace some of the black pipe and shut off valves in the basement. Even if I had the know-how, I don’t have the tools.

Simple tasks that require time and patience – those are my specialty: painting, papering, refinishing, small electrical or mechanical repairs, patching/caulking/ glazing,  or replacing the inner workings of my toilet.

I make things as square and level as possible in my old house when I repair them. I try to repair things with an eye to the future – I want the next person who repairs it not to curse my efforts.  (I find myself muttering the previous homeowner’s name every time I run across something that was done poorly, or with mind-blowing short-cuts.)

I know I can call my brother-in-law if I get in a bind, and I have – he is helpful, cheerful and has every tool I might ever need to borrow.  He also is not afraid to go up a ladder – which is something I have given up for safety’s sake.

What set me on this rant today?  I went out to install my new license plates. Not knowing if the screws might be slotted or phillips, I took both screw drivers with me.  The back ones were slotted. Easy peasy.  The front ones – I shook might head and went back in the house for a pair of pliers – I was hoping I could get the fasteners out without a socket set (I don’t have one). Two plates – two different kinds of fasteners.

Success!  It would have really galled me to call for help with such a simple thing.  Self reliance? It’s a pride thing.

About Laundry

Laundry never ends, does it? It is the never-ending story.  I live alone, but even so, work clothes, nighties and linens….it all adds up.

There is very little ironing here; I don’t buy things I know will need ironed. If I pick up something on sale that turns out to need ironing regularly, I give it to one of my sisters.  I wash, dry (only lingerie avoids the dryer) and put it away – rarely on the same day.

I wonder if I would be more on top of the laundry if the washer and dryer were not in the creepy, cob-webbed basement. (Probably not.)

I fantasize about meeting my soulmate, and finding out he is obsessed with doing laundry…a laundry junkie. (If you know a laundry junkie, that is my age or older, send him my way, will you?)

Whenever I have these random thoughts about doing the laundry, I remind myself that I should be grateful that I do not have to go to the laundromat.  Or wash my socks and undies in the sink. Or  wash my clothes against some rocks in a nearby river.

And I remind myself to be thankful that I have plenty of clothing to wear….even if I don’t do the laundry today.


As soon as I typed the word ‘handyman,’ I heard James Taylor singing it in my head.

This post is not about the song – it is about having repairmen come into your home.

I live alone. I am never fearful when I make arrangements for someone to come deliver furniture or make repairs. Why am I not afraid? I use good sense.

I deal with reputable companies – companies I have contacted, companies recommended by friends and family, not a telemarketer who solicits my business; not a door to door salesman (Why do people go door to door? I never answer if I’m not expecting someone. Do you?)

When a serviceman   does a good job, he becomes my go-to guy.  My favorite service company emails me a photo of the serviceman, so I know who to expect at my front door.

My front door. If I use a new company, I always make a big deal about having to restrain my dogs….”please make sure the repairman comes to the front door, I have two large dogs that will need to be restrained.” In my head I am thinking, “so they don’t lick the guy to death,” but I never say that aloud.  I make the old doggos sound like Cujo.




The Game of Life

Thinking about games made me think of the Game of Life.

It was very simple…you move forward, you have a job, a place to live, you marry and have a family.  Very simple.

As I had foster kids coming through my home, I reinforced that simple “Game of Life” pattern: “First you finish school, then you get a job.  You get  your own place to live, you get a car.  Then you get married and then you have a baby.”   I repeated this like a lullaby in their little ears. Always in this order.

Why?  I’ve heard that children are more likely to grow up in poverty if their parents are not married.  I know they are likely to earn less, much less,  if they don’t finish school.

I hope my singy-songy lullaby-list stuck in some of their little minds.


Now, I am not unkind. I would let a little kid beat me at a game.

I will hold back when I play a game with my daughter – it is more important to me that she learn good sportsmanship and the rules of the games we play.

And, I would let a grandma cheat (mine always did) to win.

But if  you are reading this,  and you play euchre or a board game with me – look out.  When it comes to games, I am a wild woman. I play to win and I take ridiculous risks. When I play ‘Monopoly,’ I try hard to bankrupt the other  players and block their acquisitions. When I play ‘Risk,’ I aim to rule the world.

I play games in a way that is the very opposite of how I behave in real-life: In games I am not careful, cautious, or practical.  I take wild, daring (but not un-calculated) risks.  I play to win.  If I behaved like that in real life, I would be really miserable to be around.





Yes, I know how to spell ‘heartbreak.’  This post is about something else.  It’s about holding back.

I love my kids without reservation. I love them as fully as I can. I don’t consider whether or not they will break my heart (I’m quite sure they will), I just love them.

I realized last week (yes, just last week) that I was not loving someone else nearly as well.  I  had set a ‘heartbrake’ – a self-protective limit on our relationship.

I’m not saying it is a bad thing to protect myself or set boundaries; but I am  very surprised that I set the limit so automatically, so absent-mindedly.  I was truly unaware that I had set it.

I was pulling on the handbrake and pressing the accelerator at the same time.  That’s no way to move forward – it’s a wreck.  And that’s no way to treat someone for whom you care.

If I can’t move forward, I need to park and walk away.


Family Weekend, again (daughter time)

I am always grateful for time with my daughter at family weekend.  I enjoy her company as much as enjoy my son’s company. Or my sister’s, or niece’s.  I enjoy seeing my daughter in person, watching her talk, using her hands and face for additional  expression.  She is so very animated.

The difference with visits with my daughter, compared to those other relatives is this:  With my other relatives, I do not have to be on guard….on guard for sudden mood shifts, anger, or violent outbursts.

The vigilance required of me at these family weekends is exhausting, even when she doesn’t spend the night at the hotel with me.  I don’t know how I managed that constant , high level of vigilance when my daughter was at home. I did  it, but I honestly don’t know how.

I am very grateful to her day-to-day caregivers and the agency  staff at our family weekends.


Family Weekend, again (parent session)

This family weekend was a little different.  It was quieter – there were only five kids and five moms – and only one of the kids was a boy – a very quiet boy.

The trainer, an art therapist, that ran the parent session was a first-timer.   One of the moms was new, and didn’t know what to expect. One mom was there for just the second time – the other moms: we are veterans. (When I say ‘mom,’ I am including grandmas, foster moms…we are all ‘mom’ to the children we visit.)

The  subject for the parent session was serious. It was an art project that showed the difference between the face you present to the world and what goes on in your mind.  Five women, who don’t know each other very well, spent 2+ hours working on the project and shared the meaning of their projects with the group when finished.

Introspection is exhausting. Helpful, but exhausting.




Being Tired.

Since I have been enjoying the cd player in my car, I have dug out some Warren Zevon that I haven’t listened to in a while.   I love his lyrics.  The song that has been running around in my head this week is “Never too Late for Love”…

       “You say you’re tired, how I hate to hear you use that word”

I think it’s because I have been so very tired this week. Allergies? Aches? Busy at work? All of that and something else I can’t put my finger on.
I’ll figure it out,  but in the meantime, I’ll be singing along with Warren.


In May, June and July, the trip to my daughter’s will be made in the light – the predawn sky will  be pale, not black, when I leave the house early in the morning. I appreciate the dawn.

I enjoy those drives – where I am not straining to see, not dealing with snow. It is relaxing to make the drive this time of year and  I do some of my best thinking on the road, alone in the car…when I’m not singing, of course.  I appreciate the early morning quiet.

True confession here – I recently realized I am spoiled.  While I loved my little yellow car, the peepmobile, I missed having a fob that allowed me to pop the trunk or unlock the doors by pushing a button.  And cruise control.  I appreciate all the little doo-dads on my new used car that will make the trip more pleasant.

Looking back at my cars over the years – vinyl seats, metal dashboards, rust and rattles, no air conditioning – I realized just how blessed I am to have decent and very comfortable transportation. I appreciate being able to drive, having the means to make the trip.

I’m feeling very grateful today. Very blessed.






I am very fortunate that my employer allows me to carry over vacation days: I am still using last year’s!

I scheduled some time off for a friend’s visit and class reunion. I plan to schedule a few more days for a trip to Virginia to see a friend that recently moved south. And after that, I will still have a few days from 2019 left over when my 2020 vacation days kick in.

I am looking forward to these scheduled vacation days – catching up with friends, relaxing and turning off my work brain and my phone.

While I work less than 30 hours a week, my hours often stretch over six or seven days a week and work sometimes follows me home. My trips to visit my daughter, while they do take me away from the office over weekends, are NOT relaxing. I come back to work on the Mondays after a visit feeling like I haven’t had a day off at all.

This will be the first time in years that I have used my vacation days for, well, vacation.

I usually end up spending vacation days on personal appointments, business related to my daughter, or snow days. That’s when I realized, when I was so ridiculously excited over last winter’s back to back snow days, that I needed some real vacation, some real time off.  I can’t wait!

The new car.

I have been enjoying driving my new, used car.   The radio sounds great and it has a cd player, which I consider a real treat.  I don’t have many cds, but the ones I have are terrific for car singing. ( I also sing in the house when I do house work – I really can’t certain if my singing or the noise from the sweeper is what scares the dogs.)

I have to say since I had my accident, I have been  very cautious of other drivers. Maybe a little overly cautious. It has toned down  my car choreography and sing-alongs considerably. (I was not singing when I had the accident, by the way.)  When I bought this car I realized the volume controls on the steering wheel would be great for my car singing…but  in these last two weeks I have only once or twice really belted out a tune.

My new boss mentioned he saw me driving the other day.  My first thought was: How wild was the choreography and singing?  He remarked that I was extremely focused and didn’t wave.

Whew! What a relief…I am not at my best form right now; and frankly, I don’t think my new boss is ready to see, or hear,  my car singing.

Sense of Style

There is a lovely volunteer at my office once a week.  She is  quite a lot younger than I am and extremely stylish.  She makes her clothes and they are wonderful.  Baggy overalls, oversized jumpers, paired with stylish jackets and sneakers….she looks like a page in a fashion magazine. Her smile is beautiful and contagious.

I enjoy having her in the office.  (Not just because the style factor goes way up when she is there.)  I enjoy having her in the office because I consider her my friend; I don’t make friends easily.  I am socially awkward.

We talk while we work. We talk about our children, families and pets. I like to hear  about her sewing and knitting projects – she knits much more complicated things than I would ever attempt.

We talk about strange English idioms (she is from Japan)….We were trimming some papers one day – her eyes got very wide when I told her to “eyeball it.”  We have a lot of conversations about those kinds of things.

As a volunteer, she is remarkable. If she can’t come, she often arranges for one of her friends to fill in for her.  She learns quickly and I am always amazed at how fast and accurately she completes the tasks I ask her to do.  Whether I ask her to help run copies, or assemble booklets, or ask her to help me water the plants, she does so cheerfully.  The office is a brighter place when she is there.

I find it amazing that someone can come from halfway around the world and navigate all the things that are different here – not the least of which is the language.

She asked me a couple weeks ago if she could read my blog. I hope she reads it today.





Growing up, we had a very focused dog. She had one thought, only one, DIG. When she was loose in the yard, she dug holes in the garden, the lawn. She even dug a hole in the cement floor of our garage.

From her pen, she tunneled (she must have watched Hogan’s Heroes) through every obstacle my dad installed around or inside the pen…bricks, fencing and assortment of sheet metal patches added to reinforce the fencing, sunk into the ground to keep her from burrowing through. She ignored all my dad’s attempts to stop her from digging, but she always got caught before she escaped her pen.

If she had been a smart dog, she would have realized that she could have easily jumped over the fence from her perch on top of the dog house….but her focus was only on digging – not on accomplishing a successful escape. She was obsessed, and could never consider any option other than DIG.

I thought about that dog today, when I was trying to figure out the best way to do something ….and found myself stuck on a solution that wasn’t really working for me. I am happy to report I realized my mistake – I gave up on the ‘digging’ and jumped over the fence.

Something in the air, part 2

That nagging  in my brain kept me busy all evening. It isn’t enough to keep me up at night, but it consumed my waking hours.

I realized it wasn’t one thing, but some related items that I needed to wrap up and put behind me.  Now that I have identified the problem(s), I can start working on a solution for each part.

The first part is the easiest:  an apology owed.  I can take care of that one easily. That will definitely help with the “itching” in my brain.

The next part – well, I think the reception of my apology will have to determine what comes next.  In the meantime, I will not overthink it.  Just like my family weekends, I will have to decide to fly by the seat of my pants on this – and have no expectations.

Something in the air, part 1

There is something in the air.  It is making my eyes itch and nose tickle and I do not like it.

I don’t often experience allergy symptoms.

It isn’t as if I feel miserable. It isn’t enough to make me wonder if I am coming down with a cold. It just isn’t quite right.

Annoying?  Nagging? Maybe that’s the word I want.

It reminds me of something else, an idea or feeling that has been floating around in my mind for a while now.

Nagging – yes, that’s what it is.  I can’t quite get a handle on it, but this idea is making my brain itch and tickle and I do not like it.



My next family weekend – no expectations

I never know, until I arrive at family weekend, if my daughter will be able to stay with me at the local hotel.   I always have plans loosely laid out in my head for both scenarios – staying with me, and not staying with me.

And I have learned to be flexible when it comes to the plans I make in my head. Even if she can stay with me, there is no guarantee that she will be up for my plans, which might include a haircut, or a swim, or a trip to Walmart.

I have worked really hard to avoid any expectations for these weekends – no expectations of breakthroughs in therapy, no expectations as to how my interactions with my daughter will go, no expectations as to how we will spend our time together – no expectations of any kind.

I am a very organized person. I would not start my workday without a to-do list. I would not go grocery shopping without a grocery list. I schedule. I plan ahead. This is how I am. But when it comes to my daughter and family weekends, I have learned to fly by the seat of my pants.  She lacks the ability to be flexible…so I have learned to be flexible enough for both of us.

I am not sorry.

I got a letter from Summit  County Children’s Services today, asking for information to renew my daughter’s adoption subsidy for another year.

I have regular visits with my daughter at her residential facility; I participate in her therapy; I have regular contact with her social workers/case managers, the juvenile court and  and her guardian ad litem.  My daughter has been in the custody of Summit county for over four years.   That is when her adoption subsidy ceased – over four years ago

Let me make this clear: She is still my daughter; it is only the subsidy that has ceased. (I have surrendered custody voluntarily to obtain for her the  services that she needs.) 

Every year I get the same form letter from Summit County Children Services, asking me to provide proof she is in school and still living in my home – and every year it makes me cry.  I wish she could be living here – but it is not possible. And since she is in the custody of the county, the county should be fully aware that she is not living here, shouldn’t they?

Every year I call the county to politely ask them to take me off this particular mailing list, since my daughter is in their custody, in a planned permanent living arrangement (PPLA). The county should be able to take me off of the mailing list, shouldn’t they?

Every year I get the same, lame excuses (computer issues, changes in staff , red tape) and vague assurances that I shouldn’t get the letter next year.  The county should, after four years, be able to figure out a way to correct this issue, shouldn’t they?

When I called  the county today, the fourth year in a row I have made this painful call, I was quite tearful.    The adoption department social worker feel could clearly hear that I was crying, and I could hear that my crying  was making her very uncomfortable.

I am not sorry for making her feel badly.  Not sorry at all.



Celebrating Mother’s (or Father’s) Day

My family’s Mother’s and Father’s Day celebrations look exactly the same.  We (my sisters and I, and any available grandchildren) take my parents out for breakfast on Saturday morning.   That leaves my sister and I free to celebrate with our own children on Sunday.

We started out taking my mom out on Mother’s Day weekend and my dad out on Father’s Day weekend – but after a year or two we just took both of them out for both holidays.  My parents  do everything together; they’ve been married almost 62 years, and it seems silly to leave anyone at home.

My sisters and I live within blocks of my parents and each other. We see each other very often, lunching, all of us together, at least once a week. We still look forward to getting together to celebrate our parents on their special days.  We  are keenly aware that our friends are not all as fortunate – many of their parents have passed away – and we are grateful to have our wonderful parents with us still.


A very long day.

I spent several hours Saturday with my aunt  in the local emergency room.  I did the same the  weekend before. It is exhausting. She calls 911 whenever she gets discomfort in her chest…and chest pain means you end up in the ER.

Is she ill? There is nothing wrong with her heart – although I doubt she is truly convinced.  The hospital believes she may have a reflux issue – that will require some additional follow up investigation.

Will she follow up with her primary care provider, like she was told to? I don’t know.  I will call her and remind her to make the appointment, but I can’t be sure she will really follow through. The last time she made a follow up appointment, she didn’t show – because she wasn’t feeling well – which is precisely why she should have gone to the appointment.

My aunt is  mentally ill.  She struggles, making illogical decisions and ignoring sound advice – even advice from the emergency room staff. They have been very kind and patient with her at the ER, even when she complains it is taking too long to get her test results or too long to be released.

I listened with her as they explained what she should do – and she could repeat it back. If she looked confused, I asked for further explanation.  I struggle, wondering whether or not she has the capability to  schedule and keep her follow up appointments, or even follow the ER staff’s directions.  I know she can make the phone call, but if she feels better Monday, she may just decide not to… you can’t make her schedule or keep an appointment because she is an adult.

I recently had a conversation with a social worker – he expressed that adults who suffer from mental illness or developmental issues have the right to make bad decisions, just like anyone else.  The difference is this:  If I make a bad decision, I have to deal with it myself.  If my aunt makes a bad decision,   our family , her social workers or the paramedics end up working to straighten things out on her behalf…again.




There is a reason my blog posts don’t refer to people by name.  Whether it is my daughter, son, extended family or friends (even enemies, lol) – they all have a right to privacy.

The blog represents my perspective – regarding events, circumstances and people. My perspective. I would feel obligated to share their perspectives, too, if I used names.

Looking back at the word ‘enemies’ makes me chuckle. There are people I don’t trust, people that are not my friends – the word ‘enemies’ is a little harsh…I do not have wicked people out there actively seeking my demise. I find it much more enjoyable to write about loved family and friends, than those in that other category.  I am the sort of person who will tell you to your face if I have a problem with you.

Sometimes, my readers recognize themselves  or a mutual friend in a post. That’s okay – I’m glad they know I was thinking about them.



A lot to say

When I started my blog, almost half a year ago, I didn’t think I had much to say.  But, once I started letting my thoughts out on paper – well, there doesn’t seem to be any way to stop them. Apparently, I have quite a lot to say!  I am not reflecting on the quality here, just the quantity.

Writing has always been easier for me than talking; there is time to consider and choose my words. As a member of a family of fast-talkers, you have to jump in, ready or not, in order to be heard. When I’m writing, the pace is slower, more thoughtful.

The grammar in my posts is not always correct…but it does reflect the way I speak. When I am writing, I imagine a dear friend listening to me ramble.

If you are reading this, thank you. Thank you for listening. And if you’ve encouraged me to continue to write, THANK YOU; you’ve helped me find my voice.

i write


No Call

Whenever my daughter does not call on her regular call day, I wonder about her.

I am always hopeful that she didn’t call because she was happily occupied by activities at her residential facility. Often this is the case. She is, after all, a teenager and it is healthy for her to be with friends, enjoying a movie or a shopping trip. It makes me happy when I hear, eventually, her giggling reports of her recent adventures.

While I always assume the best, I am well aware that sometimes, the reality is not always as happy. She may miss a call because she was having a meltdown, or simply refused to walk over to the phone. Or, worse, was having a physical altercation with her peers. When I find out this has been the case, I am so very grateful that the altercation, meltdown, or uncooperative behavior is taking place there – and not at home where I would have to deal with it directly. Addressing the behavior after the fact  and on the phone is much safer.



Since I am an early riser, I have developed a habit of taking an afternoon nap.   Well, to say “I’ve developed a habit,” is actually rather grandiose.  The truth is, when I sit down in my recliner to read the paper after my mid-afternoon meal, I fall asleep.  It has never been intentional, it just happens.

I always feel good when I wake up – I rarely dream at naptime – and it apparently does not interfere with my nighttime sleep.

I attribute this to inheriting the ‘good sleep’ gene from my dad.   He sleeps, always has, very well.  My mother, on the other hand, is an insomniac. I am so very grateful that I did not inherit that! Feeling blessed to get my rest.

Now, I’m not saying I never wake up in the middle of the night – I almost always do. But getting back to sleep is rarely an issue.

When I dream at night, the dreams are always very weird, but rarely frightening.  If a dream wakes  me at night, it will cause me to  wonder….”What the heck was that all about?”  “What did I eat last night?” or “There is definitely something wrong with me!”  I decide to think about it in the morning –  that’s all it takes for me to go back to sleep. Come morning, I have a good laugh about the dream and go on with my day.

Once or twice a year I will have a dream that sticks with me; it will be more vivid and feel important, maybe even repeat; it feels like there is a message my sleeping brain wants me to understand.  I may spend a good deal of waking time trying to figure it out…but I won’t lose sleep over it.



Not too old

I read a friend’s post on facebook this week: ‘You are not too old. It is not too late.’

I like it when I read something that gives me a needed kick in the backside – this week I was feeling very old and much too late.  I was having a mini pity-party in my head… and I HATE  WHEN I DO THAT!

Reading that quote snapped me out of it.  I am not too old – I move a little more slowly, more deliberately,   but I am definitely moving forward.   I refuse to sit and rot.

I really do believe it is never too late – never to late to make things right, to make progress, to be a better person, to love and be loved….but during my pathetic little pity party, I wasn’t living like it.

I declare the pity party over.


The Peepmobile’s Replacement

I haven’t decided what to name the small black sedan that replaced the peepmobile. I will take my time and pick a name that appeals to me. It will be something that makes me chuckle; a joke that no one needs to ‘get’ – except for me.

I’ve had cars with names of old movie stars(for instance, Spencer – a grey buick), sci-fi references(the Tardis – a boxy blue vw, and Mad Max – a pontiac that was an epic disaster, even when new), a car named after the time in my life that I owned it (the Mom-mobile – a station wagon named that by my dear friend), and one named after a song(Free Bird – a ’78 thunderbird). One car(a red geo with extremely limited power) was known simply as ‘the dog,’ which is very truly an insult to canines everywhere.

I’ve had some suggestions from friends (of course I have the kind of friends that name their cars, too!) ranging from the Crow(like the graphic novel) to Johnny Cash(who dressed in black).

I just haven’t decided…I have a couple of weeks to pick out a name and a vanity plate. In the meantime – I’m open to suggestions.


It is a habit I have developed from talking with my daughter; a habit of replaying conversations in my head. Not every conversation…just the ones that are important to me. I feel the need to try to figure out motives, identify body language cues, and decipher any other clues to a meaning that I might have missed.

I have a friend whose visits routinely make me wonder – What does that mean? Why did you do that? Are you stupid?

Yeah, that last one is not very nice; but it is really something I wonder. Not whether my friend has a low IQ – no, I know my friend is smart. What I wonder is whether my friend is trying to engage me in an argument or is just clueless about the effect of the words being exchanged between us.

I always give my friend the benefit of the doubt after I replay the conversations – I choose to decide my friend is just dense rather than unkind or mean. This friendship is important; I won’t abandon it over words.

Phone calls from my daughter

It is difficult to understand my daughter’s conversations on the phone. When I am with her, I can read her body language pretty well. When we are on the phone, I don’t have that advantage – and her conversations are hard to follow.

In person, I can see her looking around distractedly, and see what has caught her attention elsewhere in the room. On the phone, when she loses her train of thought, I can’t tell if it is because she is tired, or if her worker walked into the room with a pizza.

In person, I can hold her hand and make eye contact. I can see where she is looking and work to keep her attention on the subject we are discussing. On the phone, I can only ask, “are you still there?”

I can imagine the hand motions she might make as she speaks, but on the phone, I can’t really see them.  The movement of her hands would  help me understand the mood of her words when I can’t hear the mood in her voice.


For some reason I have run across the word “camaraderie” four times in the last week. It is not a word I see often, so I am looking for some significance in it’s sudden frequent appearance in my life. If there is something coming my way, I don’t want to miss it because I wasn’t paying attention.

Camaraderie   is defined as a “mutual trust and friendship among people who spend a lot of time together.’
Synonyms are: friendship, comradeship, fellowship, good fellowship, companionship, brotherliness, brotherhood, sisterhood, closeness, affinity, togetherness, solidarity, mutual support.
I’ll let you know when I figure out the significance of this word at this particular time in my life.


Early mornings.

I came into work very early this morning to help out with an event. I like being here in the office early, before everyone else brings their noise and activity here. It is peaceful. Calm. Quiet.

I can never have too much quiet.  It is something I didn’t realize until these last few years – just how much I long for quiet.

I’m not opposed to music. I sing a lot. Loudly and badly.

I’m not opposed to tv and radio. I watch and listen more than I should.

I’m not opposed to conversation, and interactions with my co-workers. I like them.

But I covet the quiet. I want it more than music, more than entertainment, more than personal interaction.  When I can sit next to someone, comfortably, without having to talk – THAT, for me,  is the ultimate quiet experience.



I remember watching Shari Lewis and Lambchop when I was a girl.  I made my son watch her on public tv when he was a boy. The “song that never ends” was stuck in my head more days than I can count.

I heard an interview with Shari Lewis. She  said she would order lambchops at a restaurant just to see the horror on the waiter’s face. I like her.

Lambchop has a new ‘life’ of sorts at my house. Lambchop is by far the cheapest stuffed toy I can order for my dogs on Chewy.

They love her.  Texas bites at Lambchop’s feet and brings me the squeakers as gifts when he removes them.  Sweetie tears off Lambchop’s face one bit at a time (I worry about that dog). Every time she walks by the doll, she shakes Lambchop to make sure she is dead.  They both pull out stuffing (thankfully they don’t eat it), play tug of war with each other, and toss and chase the faceless, footless carcass around the living room.  Sometimes they sleep with Lambchop’s remains. Lambchop keeps them out of trouble.

It takes months for them to completely destroy a Lambchop. When the toys get too disgusting, I order two more – about six Lambchops are sacrificed here every year.


Heat wave.

I believe in spontaneous combustion.  I believe it is possible for a person to burst into flame and vanish. It almost happened here last night.

I am hot all the time. All the time.

I have friends who are always cold. I envy them. They wear really cute sweaters and dressy blouses, even in the summer. Me? I wear as little as possible without being indecent.  I think there were two days last winter that required a coat. My unlined, corduroy jacket is usually sufficient.  I run a fan in my office all year long.

I don’t often have  hot “flashes.” But, when they come, WOW! It almost always happens at night. Throw off the sheet (I never need a blanket), and tear off the nightie! Good thing I live alone!






Big and little.

My daughter  longs for the life we shared when she was little. Simpler, easier.  In her mind everything was just the way she wanted. She misses Easter dinner, candy, spoiling grandparents, aunts and uncles. (Who wouldn’t?)  But the day to day living here at home is foggy when she remembers it. Maybe selective is a better word.

She did not like bedtime. Or baths. Or any of the necessary activities, like her school or my work, that interrupted whatever she was doing to occupy herself.  I will say that when she was smaller the behavior problems were smaller.  Or, maybe, because she was smaller, I could physically manage her behavior more easily. I could pick her up and deposit her in her crib. Or her room

Now that she is nearly an adult, she wants the freedoms that come with adulthood, without any understanding of the responsibilities that it brings (this is typical teenager behavior, I know.)

The problem is, while she is big (grown up) on the outside , she is still little (maybe 5 or 6) on the inside. She does not have the capacity to manage either the freedoms or the responsibilities that come with adulthood. I’m very grateful for the crew of social workers, teachers,  and aides that help her manage her day to day chores and behavior.  It  makes me hopeful for her future.

While I enjoyed both of my children when they were little, I am so very grateful they are big.


Events change us.

Sometimes events (illnesses or tragic losses, for example) change us. They can add a perspective to life that was missing before the event occurred. Is this a good thing? If you decide it is, yes.

The restraints and pain that come from tragedy can force us to be different. Better. More humble. More kind.

Sometimes we don’t recognize, until much later, how an event has transformed us; how positively our lives have been impacted, even through pain.

Sometimes people change without any awareness that they’ve been transformed in a positive way. They don’t embrace hope. They don’t recognize any divine plan or care. They long for who they were before, without any appreciation of the remarkable person they have become through their struggle. Sadly, they don’t see themselves as capable, or worthy. They don’t seem to be able to focus clearly on the present or future; they can only look back at the loss; they cling to the past and miss out on the now.

Friendship, part 2

My friend of the frequent phone calls has tremendous friendship retention.*

But in my life, friendships change or end. Distance, time, changes in circumstance. Sounds like a math story problem, doesn’t it?

Some friendships just fade. They are still there, just not as vivid. These are the friends it is easy to reconnect with when they come to town or call out of the blue, or when you run into them at the grocery store. It’s like finding a comfortable pair of shoes in the back of the closet and discovering they still fit perfectly.

Other friendships end with a bang – an argument or betrayal; fortunately, I haven’t experienced many of those.

The saddest ones are the ones that vanish suddenly like a magician’s trick, into thin air: Makes you suspect the friendship was just a skillful illusion, makes you feel that you’ve been watching from the audience rather than being an active part of the show. When the curtain comes down you are still wondering what happened.

*Quite a tongue twister!

Friendship, part 1

I have a friend who frequently calls to check on me. I don’t see her often; she often is away, but she calls me regularly just to see how I am. If I needed something, she would help me. I would help her, too.

But the calling? I rarely call her – I return her calls if I miss them, of course, but I don’t initiate our contact. My friend is one of those people who has a real talent for staying in touch. Her parties include her neighbors from many years ago, former co-workers, high school friends…..I don’t think she has ever made a friend and lost track of them.

How did she become my friend? She had been a neighbor of my husband’s some years before he and I met. She invited us to card parties and cookouts. After the divorce, she and her husband remained friendly with me. I am grateful for her continued interest and care.

She has an outgoing manner and a knack for dealing with people, but I suspect most of her friendship success stems from the high priority she places on keeping in touch.

Ambulance chasers.

I do not swear. It is a personal conviction.  If I need to put someone in their place, I can do it very well with g-rated words and a glare. You know that expression – “if looks could kill.”

I have some words I use to express displeasure – for example, “bolognahead.”  It is a word my great aunt’s bird used to say – about her husband.  I use it  to describe people who behave stupidly.

Now, today, I have decided on a new non-curse word to exclaim when someone really ticks me off: “ambulance chaser.”  Why? because they are the lowest life-form on the planet,  and they are making my phone ring constantly, after the accident WHERE NO ONE WAS INJURED, (DO YOU HEAR THAT, MEDICAL  CLINICS?) AND AND NO ONE INVOLVED WANTS TO FILE A LAWSUIT (PAY ATTENTION,  LAWYERS!)! If I did need medical attention or legal advice, I would not get it from some fool who trolls police reports!!!

If we argue and I call you “ambulance chaser,” you better run. It means I am really mad, and I want you to go away!



The Grandma Files, again

One of my fondest memories of my grandma’s house is the big front porch.  Wicker furniture, a swing, vining flowers on the east side, a large bamboo roll-up blind on the west.

The porch floor was painted grey and partially covered by a rug.  The wood floor was tongue and groove, not the deck-style with spaces between that is common now.  It was a great place to play on a hot day. My grandma swept the porch with a broom every morning to make sure no dirt got tracked in the house.  The front porch was an extension of the living room…just  like the back porch was an extension of the kitchen.

Because of the big maple tree on the south side of the house, the front porch was cool on hot days. I can remember stories of my uncle sleeping out there on a hot summer night. No one would do that today.  But when I open all three windows in my bedroom, breezes stirring the curtains, the sound of cars going up the brick street at night…I can imagine exactly what that must have been like.


My ‘Cats’

When I visit my daughter, my sister and son take care of my dogs. They are lazy old dogs, and quite frankly, they might as well be cats.

They want fed and petted only when they want. They sleep all day and most of the night. Unlike our first dog, these two, do NOT follow me around like a puppy. They do not beg for attention. They tolerate me because they do not have the thumbs required to open doors or food containers.

They are annoyed when I pack my suitcase, because they have come to realize that the suitcase represents a change in their routine. They fuss when they are confined for the benefit of a dinner guest. If I allowed them access to the bedrooms, they would sleep on the beds or clean laundry in baskets. They steal my yarn balls when I knit.

See? They’re cats!

They do have one important non-feline quality – they bark. And if you heard their deep voices, you would think twice about breaking into my house. That is their one job. Even if they act like cats, they sound like dogs.


It took 13 days to get the police report from my recent accident. Things happen. That delay doesn’t frustrate me – it made me slow down and think about what kind of car will replace the peepmobile.  I really needed to take some time to decide what to do.

When the police report became available at 9:00 this morning…my phone started ringing.  Every ambulance chasing lawyer and chiropractor/doctor in town called me this morning; tying up my phone with junk calls while I am waiting for a call from my insurance adjuster – that IS frustrating.

Also frustrating: finding out that the other driver, while insured, does not have a valid license!?!  If you don’t have a license – it means you shouldn’t  drive.  If she had complied with the suspension, the accident wouldn’t have happened.

Even as I am typing,  though, I am thinking of that other, younger driver. Her life is going to much more impacted by this accident than mine will be.  Dealing with the suspended license issue, her own totaled car, and her insurance….her frustrations will be much, much greater than mine.  I pray she has the capacity to handle it and straighten things out for herself.

This latest family weekend.

Another family weekend at my daughter’s residential facility…Activities and crafts together, meals together, long conversations. I enjoy the extended time with my daughter; even when she isn’t eligible to spend the night with me at the hotel.

Why was she ineligible? She threw some desks at someone who irritated her.   Desks! This is why she isn’t at home: Explosive outbursts of dangerous behavior.

She was fine at the visit. A little tearful when we said goodbye.  (I feel that way, too, but I suck it up until I get home – then have a good cry.)

The drive combined with the visits is exhausting, emotionally and physically. I look forward to her move closer to home after graduation. More frequent and shorter visits will be easier for both of us.


Another visit

I love my children. I enjoy any time I get to spend with either of them.  Here at the house this evening, packing my bag for an overnight visit with my daughter, I found myself humming a song.  It took me awhile to identify it: Another Ticket by Eric Clapton.

Why can’t it stay like this forever?
Why does it always have to change?
Every time you think you’ve paid the price
Seems you’ve always got to pay it twice
Every time you think you’re near the end
You turn around and find another ticket
These are the lyrics that go with the melody running around in my head.  I’m not sad, resentful of change. I’m just thoughtful this evening.  I wonder if my daughter will be able to spend the night with me at the hotel? I wonder if her behavior has been okay this week? I wonder….and I won’t have any answers until I get to the facility on Saturday.  I’ve learned to be flexible.
Having looked up the lyrics, I remember that they came from the time of a different visit. They remind me of the time I went to pick up my friend at the airport for a  class reunion, and found – surprise – another friend came to town and hoped to stay with me AT MY PARENTS’, without any advance  notice.  My parents were gracious about it; the stay was fine.  I was a lot less flexible then.

School blues

With the loss of the peepmobile, I decided to drop my class at the local university.  I have transportation to work, and to see my daughter.  But  school? I decided the time preparing for school, and driving there, would be better spent looking for a used car.

My sisters’ cars are nice and big.  All the cars other people have offered to loan me are nice and  big.  I am not sure I want to drive someone else’s  nice, big car to school.  Forget that school is downtown….downtown where I had the wreck….I am not sure I want to be responsible for parking a nice, big car in the student lot. And, of course, I can’t parallel park.

I was sorry to drop the class; I learned a lot of information that I wish I had known when I was  young;  young like the rest of the students in the class.  And, just like my class last semester, taking this class has reinforced to me the value of  my life experience. I  usually know the answer to the instructor’s question because I’ve lived it, because I pay attention to what happens around me and I read the newspaper,  not because I memorized the answer from a text book reading assignment.

I won’t sign up for summer classes.  But next fall….I’ll definitely go back.



Keeping busy

I’ve made a couple quilts over the last few years, and some other enjoyable sewing projects. I like to keep my hands busy. I have quilt-top cut out, but haven’t felt like pinning it together and sewing it up. The 120 year old sewing machine I use, is not portable, so I sew upstairs in the room that was my daughter’s. The dogs like it when I sew. They lay by my feet and watch the treadle move up and down. That is the only time they are allowed in that room. (The boy dog, Tex, has a love of sleeping on human beds, so unsupervised naps in the bedrooms are off limits.)

Since I prefer to spend evenings downstairs, I decided to start knitting again. I have a friend who gives me her leftover yarn from crocheting baby blankets. I don’t have the patience for crochet. When I read those instructions I feel stupid and clumsy.

So I knit hats for the local public school…one year I knitted ninety. The pattern is easy and variable. And when you are making hats, there isn’t the pressure of having two finished products come out the same size, like pairs of mittens or socks. It is relaxing. A hat takes about two hours, start to finish on the circular needles.

I don’t know who invented those circular knitting needles – short needles joined by a flexible nylon cord, but it is genius! No seams, no blocking, continuous knitting, and the project goes so fast!


I won’t buy anything that causes me to think, “If I was younger” or “If I was thinner.” I do always buy clothes that fit me now…not my past or future self.

Every once in a while, though, I make a clothing choice that can be filed under the heading: WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

These choices could be things such as…

uncomfortable shoes – NOT heels, and not uncomfortable for any obvious reason – just uncomfortable.

a blouse in a color that is strange – I have trouble identifying colors anyway – if the clothing is new, I can rely on the color name in the catalog. If the clothing is from the thrift store, I will ask someone who looks fairly put-together, “What color is this?” (I really do ask someone whose own clothing looks good that day!)  The color, though, can still be strange.

dress slacks in a funky synthetic fabric – I do wear fake suede pants in the colder weather. These are actually the least ugly dress slacks that I own. The old-lady slacks I used to wear daily have all been retired. I am shaking my head just thinking about them and their stylish-less bagginess.

Every once in a while, I will pick something out that I’m not sure about and buy it anyway. Oddly enough, some of my favorite clothing choices have come about this way. A vintage silk blouse with french cuffs and cuff links, for instance. I don’t wear it often, but when I do, I feel like a million bucks.  Sometimes it’s worth the gamble.

Used cars.

I have shopped for, and bought, used cars by myself a number of times. It is NOT a pleasure.

The first time, I was 24. My dad was laid up with a bad back, so I went shopping without him. I had a number of car salesmen tell me to come back with my dad. One gave me a half dollar to remember his name “Kennedy.” I used the half dollar to buy a soda, and bought my car somewhere else…from the one salesman that treated me like I was not stupid.

The salesmen routinely asked, “What color car do you want, little girl?” (I  know they were thinking ‘little girl’ even if they didn’t say it.) Now I do have a color preference, but it is very low on the list after fuel efficiency, engine size, maintenance/service records and other such truly useful information. Back then, I worked on my cars; I wanted to know what I was buying!

The salesmen that wait on me now are a little less condescending. Of course, there is the added insult of treating me like I’m elderly. I may be old enough to be his grandma, but he better talk to me like an intelligent and vital adult with a very good credit rating!

And heaven help him if he asks, “What color car do you want, grandma?”…even if the “grandma” is silent.


When my kids were little, spring and fall, we would get out the bins and boxes of clothes for the coming season and try them on. (or at least hold them up to see if they were close.) My children were always blessed with a lot of hand me downs from friends and family, so there were never a lot of clothes to purchase. I miss those days of Winnie the Pooh t-shirts and tiny shorts on their chubby, dimple-kneed, legs. Fall overalls and turtlenecks.

Now, I just move my off-season blouses from the guest room closet into my own room’s closet. It’s not necessary to try them on – my size is the same (thankfully) from season to season. There is still some excitement – summer tie-dye and short sleeves come out – long sleeves and jackets get put away. The warm weather items I bought last fall on season-end clearance sales are new, still wearing tags.

I love the change in seasons; the change in weather, the change in clothes.

A lot of decisions.

I have some decisions to make about my own circumstances – not just my daughter’s.

I have some home repairs to prioritize. I have to shop for, and buy, a used car.  I have decisions to make that will affect the people in my life. I am in a season where decisions seem to be required in every area of my life.

I don’t  have a problem making decisions. I am very methodical, very logical, and I have a clear sense of direction; a clear sense of right and wrong.  I know where I want to go, and I know that steps, rather than speed,  will take me there. (I have a picture of a turtle that says something like this hanging outside my bedroom.)

I will take a little time, and over the next few weeks, I will make every decision, carefully and prayerfully.  I will make the best decision that I can in each case. Indecision is not an option.

Now, I know not every decision will play out exactly the way I envision. Some decisions will play out better, some not  quite as well.  Some will play out in ways that I could not begin to imagine – future me will look back and shake her head, or smile.  Just because it doesn’t turn out the way I expect, doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice.






Decision made.

My recent auto accident helped me finalize a difficult decision.

I had already decided my daughter would have a payee. (A financial guardian that is not me.)

I had to decide whether we would apply for a guardian for her person, to help her manage life when she graduates from high school. There was a long conversation with her DD social worker, and other social workers. We discussed her difficulty with transitions and the pros and cons to me taking that role initially. There are some personal particulars to her case that will need to be handled in 2021. The thought was that, perhaps, I would be better able to make sure this business was handled.

I read the many pages of definitions and information that they gave me to review. My gut was telling me it would be easier to make all the changes at once, rather than to make them piecemeal.

The accident caused me to decide, yes, a guardian is needed as soon as she graduates from high school. My greatest concern is that I would pass away without this protection in place. Asking for the appointment of a guardian up front will eliminate that concern. I don’t need to be her guardian to look out for her best interests, including that business in 2021 – I am her mom. I will not let that guardian rest until that business is handled.

I realize that a guardian could pass away suddenly in an accident, too, but that is a different, lesser kind of loss.

Hold on loosely.

Hold on loosely.

That was the best advice anyone ever gave me. It applies to stuff  you own and plans you make. When I was given this advice, the context was clearly stuff and plans.

When your fists are closed in an attempt to hold on, you can’t accept anything new, you can’t embrace change, and you can’t move forward.

It can apply to people; people that move through your life without a real connection, people that don’t want to be in your life, or who aren’t good for your own mental health.

But it doesn’t apply to faith, hope, or loving family and friends; to those you need to hold on tightly. And I’m not picturing a tight, grabby fist here, I’m picturing a hug.



The end of the road.

I bought the peepmobile, my little yellow car that looked like a marshmallow peep, about a year ago. It wasn’t new, but it was the newest, nicest car I had owned in a very long time. I smiled whenever I opened the garage and saw it there; the yellow upholstery and yellow interior trim made me chuckle. I had never imagined driving such a thing.

Driving to school the other afternoon, the peepmobile was hit and totalled. I just had a couple bruises from the seat belts and airbags, and the other driver and her passengers were not hurt. I am very grateful for that!

The other, at fault, driver had made an illegal left turn into my passenger side door and fender and pushed me into a pole, which damaged the front end and ripped off the bumper.

The other driver was legitimately confused. The intersection is poorly designed, and although there was a “no left turn” sign over her lane, she just didn’t realize there were two lanes of parallel traffic coming up on the left beside her;  Main and Broadway merge. The changes being made all over downtown, all at once, have left many drivers confused!

The policeman indicated there is a traffic camera at the intersection because there are so many accidents at that location. He was able to see the video from the camera on his smartphone immediately. It was clear that her claims that I caused the accident were untrue. He could see her turn left into into my car on his little screen. Thankfully, she was insured.

My sister graciously came down and picked me up; I grabbed my stuff out of the glove box, since I didn’t expect to see the car again. We watched the peepmobile getting ready to be towed away. The officer asked me about the license plate: P33P. I told him I got the vanity plate because the car looked like a giant marshmallow peep (he agreed)….and that it was spelled that way because it was substantially cheaper to have two 3’s than two E’s.

It’s the end of the road for the peepmobile and P33P.

Yellow Flowers

I enjoy the daffodils in my yard. They are transplants from my friend’s yard, by way of my mom’s yard. They were among the plants I received when I moved into my home almost 29 years ago. I like their sunny yellow faces. They seem to glow when the sun hits them in the morning.

My aunt had an intense dislike of another yellow flower – forsythia. Instead of a sign of spring, she considered them the harbinger of doom. When she saw forsythia blooms, she recognized them as a signal that snow and ice were on the way to kill her other spring blossoms.

My son and daughter liked yellow flowers – dandelions.  I cannot tell you how many dandelions I have put in little vases and cups, brought in by my children, because they wanted to bring me flowers. I always told them not to pick the neighbors’ flowers, so they picked ours. Our were mostly dandelions.

I miss the days when they were little and life was that simple. But you can’t go back, only forward.

And that’s okay. Who knows what kind of yellow flowers might be in my future?

The end of patience.

I am a calm person. When I recently sat in a seminar about high conflict parenting, I noticed that some of the suggested methods of defusing a difficult situation were already a part of my repertoire. I’m used to dealing with volatile people without getting sucked into the madness. I almost always will choose a thoughtful response over a knee-jerk reaction.

I’m not saying I never get mad, annoyed, or irritated. I do. But I rarely reach a combustion point. I rarely lose my temper. I don’t like arguing and I don’t feel the need to be “right;” I am able to just walk away…most of the time. Sometimes, though, something is SO important that it is non-negotiable.

I reached a combustion point this week. I reached the end of my patience and peered over the precipice. I did manage to keep control of myself and there was no anger-explosion. I moved away from the person who chased me to the edge until I can interact with him/her calmly. I’m nearly there now…I just need a little more time to fully calm down before I set things straight.




Red buds

The maple trees in the neighborhood are covered in emerging red buds. I love the way they look. The buds will get bigger and bigger until they burst into a big red mess on the sidewalks and driveways. I never mind the mess. I choose to look at the bigger picture:

Red buds mean the trees will be leafing out soon. In a few weeks, I will no longer look out my kitchen windows and see downtown or the city lights. Leaves, flowers, trees. That is all I will see in the early mornings when I cook my coffee.(Yes, I actually cook it on the stove.) I will have a complete change of scenery courtesy of spring.

Red buds mean that the evening sun soon will not shine through my west-facing windows. Instead, the trees will cool my house in their lovely shade. I will leave the upstairs windows open enjoying the sight and sound of the breeze through the lacy branches.

I am ready for the change of seasons. Red buds say it’s here.


I describe my work around the house as putzing. Lots of little fix-it jobs, mending, moving my pictures and tchotchkes around into different arrangements. Some dusting. Even a little ironing (Yes, friend, there is that one blouse that just needs it.)

I washed the china for an upcoming dinner after moving it carefully down from the upper cupboards. I cleaned my long hairs out of the vacuum cleaner brushes. I hand washed some doilies.

Before I know it, I’ve putzed the day away. No one but me would notice any of the changes I made today, but I do notice them. And I feel like I got something done…something just for me.

The thing about doing those little putzy jobs around the house is – one thing leads to another. Washing the doilies makes me want to launder the curtains, throw the toss pillows into the dryer to dust them. There always seems to be a natural progression to the next task. I like that. It’s very orderly in a natural way. It does make for a long workday though…it’s hard to find the place where you stop thinking, “just one more thing.”

Evening Crazies

My dogs are old and lazy. They eat breakfast and sleep all day. When I come home from work, they want to go out, have a little attention (pats on the head) and another nap. What a life!

About an hour before my bedtime, something changes.

Sweetie makes a “nest” and “sings,” curled up on her chair, grunting and snorting herself to sleep. It is quite a racket and often lasts half an hour.

Texas…for him evening is fetch time. He would play fetch all evening, if I was willing. I throw whatever he brings, a ball, a rubber squeaky toy, rope or the un-stuffed “corpse” of his Lambchop doll…he runs back and forth, bringing me toys to toss into the other room for him to chase. He wags his tale, smiles (I swear he smiles)  and drops the toys at my feet. When he is finally tired, he stretches out and chews his bone.

When I decide to go up to bed, Sweetie will open one eye and watch me leave the room. Tex will follow me upstairs and lay down beside the bed. He rarely stays there all night though; apparently my snoring drives him back downstairs.



I have a lot of things in my house. Decorative things. Things that have sentimental value to me. Some of the things remind me of family or friends. Seeing these objects often prompts me to pray for the acquaintances, friends or relatives who gave them to me. Sometimes the objects weren’t gifts, but they will still remind me of someone for whom I need to pray.

Not all of the objects have such a serious purpose. Sometimes an object will just tickle me. (I am chuckling, imagining how my daughter would take that sentence literally!)

One of my favorite objects is a “statue” I named “Maynard.” It is a cheap resin copy of Rodin’s Thinker. He sits on the table next to me ‘watching’ tv in the evenings, along with the giant nose that my son bought me to hold my reading glasses. I named the nose “Moss.”

Now, don’t worry, these are not imaginary friends and I have not totally lost my mind. When I am doing housework, I just prefer, “I have to dust Maynard and Moss,” over, “I have to dust my plastic thinker and giant glasses nose.”

In fact, I was sitting here this evening thinking I should make a teeny-tiny name tag, you know, like those stick-on ones that say, “Hello, my name is,” for Maynard. That would really tickle me.

School – People Watching

The people watching at a professional seminar is different from the people watching at my regular college classes. I am NOT the token senior citizen (60+ student) in the class.

There is no one here under 35, and fully one third of the participants are older, much older, than me. About two thirds are women; about 80% are white. They are attorneys, social workers, education professionals.

They have this in common: Fabulous shoes. I bet you thought I was going to say something serious, like “they care about children.”

No, I chose to focus on the footwear.

I cannot remember the last time I was in the presence of that many gorgeous high heels – pumps and boots, and perfectly shined wingtips. Even the sensible shoes were magnificent.

Some of the other clothing choices were suspect…too casual, too tight, too much. But the shoes were perfect.


School – Continuing Education

I took a day off work to attend a seminar on High Conflict Parenting. Why? Because I like to learn new things. I spent part of the day looking out the large windows, enjoying the spring weather; listening to the speaker, but allowing my brain to wander a little.

I have a lot going on in my life right now. Work is busy. There are a lot of decisions to be made on behalf of my daughter. There are the usual spring cleaning things to do around the house.

With all the busy-ness it was a pleasure to sit and listen to someone else work. I had no responsibility there. While the topic is serious, my mood is relaxed. Oddly enough, this was like a vacation.


I spent Sunday driving three hours with my son to visit my daughter.

He is without a doubt her favorite person.  Her face just lights up when she sees him. One year at the school’s Santa shop, she bought him a large pencil that said, “#1 Sister,” because she thought that conveyed the sentiment that HE was number one to her!

He is kind and patient with her, and their conversations about movies, anime, video games and such, go right over my head.   I observe the conversation like I am watching a wild, no-rules ping pong game – it makes me smile to see them interact this way. The visits between the two of them are relaxed and happy.

On this visit, my daughter was not able to go out….so we brought in Chinese food.  And drinks: lemonade and iced tea.  It doesn’t matter which drink we choose for her, she will want to try the one he has chosen for himself…and he always gives it to her.  That has become a joke between my son and I; it is the reason we don’t just pick out two drinks the same.

My son and I spent the long drive up and back talking about future plans, our daily lives and music.  This trip, Weezer’s Teal Album played on the way back.  He always has some modern take on my old favorites that he wants me to hear.

It was a really good day.

The VW

My aunt took my sisters and I, sometimes our cousins, and two other adults to church in her VW on Sundays. Now, you couldn’t stack all those people in a car without getting pulled over. Then, it was pretty routine. The best seat was in the back window well.

Trips for ice cream cones with my grandma’s fat dog, long drives in the country. I remember floating across a flooded roadway in that car during a heavy rain. We had a lot of adventures in that car.

When my aunt decided to replace that her  VW, she sold it to my dad.  By that time, the VW  was no longer sea-worthy, the floorboards having rusted away. (They were replaced by pegboard.) Can you imagine driving a car with no real floorboard?

After failing to parallel park my parents’ giant Buick, I passed my driver’s test in the VW.

My dad mounted a big horn under the hood, and when you honked it, it would rattle the fillings in your teeth. The defroster didn’t work, so it was very interesting to drive this car in the winter.

My dad made arrangements to trade in the VW when he ordered his red Chevy Nova. By the time the newer car was ready, the VW was on it’s last leg. I held a plastic gallon jug of gasoline with a drip line (it looked like an IV) out the passenger window while my dad drove it to the dealership.

Aunt J.

My aunt, my mother’s older sister, spent a lot of time with me as a kid and as an adult. She always seemed much older than my mother (she was about 12 years older) and it was like having an extra grandmother. She turned grey early, and during most of her working years, had long hair that she wore in a bun.

For work, she wore suits. At home, she wore house dresses. She made her own clothes, and many of the clothes that my sisters and I wore to school.

The suits she made for herself were very nice. Conservatively styled in neutral colors. Sensible looking expensive shoes. She did not wear jewelry. She had a favorite raincoat that she called her “Columbo” coat.

Her sleeveless house dresses were called “Three-holers.” It was a pattern that she used frequently – it was for a wrap-style housedress with three armholes. No zippers, no buttons – the extra armhole is what kept the dress closed. Once she retired, she preferred denim jumpers and skirts.

She sewed skirts, jumpers, dresses and vests for us. I’m not sure she enjoyed sewing, but when asked by my mom or by us, she always sewed. My mom bought bolts of fabric for our clothes. One year our clothes were red corduroy. The next year they were snakeskin(!) patterned corduroy. Once slacks were allowed, especially jeans, my sisters and I began wearing those for school instead (Yes, there was a time long ago that girls had to wear dresses and skirts to school!)

The things that she sewed for us in junior high and highschool were Sunday dresses, special occasion dresses in velvet and other hard to sew fabrics, long frilly maxi dresses with zippered fancy sleeves. I even remember a jumpsuit or two. She altered our store-bought clothes, too. She used much more complicated patterns for our clothes than she ever did for her own.

Working full-time, coming home and sewing clothes for three girls. Remarkable.

The clothes we remember most (not counting that snakeskin corduroy):
The lined winter coats she hemmed for my sisters – she failed to remove the pins that were inside. They were routinely poked in the backside.

The lovely dress she made for my sister – J. forgot to do the final stitching connecting the bodice to the skirt. Fortunately the basting held until my sister got home.

My flowered purple maxi dress that required yards of expensive extra fabric to correctly match the flowered pattern .

The doll clothes that Santa delivered in fabrics that exactly matched the clothing that J. made for us.

Change is good, if you decide it is.

I do not care to seek change just because I want something different.  I have many memories of bad hairdos, bad clothing-style choices, and even experiments with over-rated food fads to look back on. Change for it’s own sake is NOT always good.

The changes I have chosen to embrace, the changes that I consider ‘good,’ are  brought about by time, or health, or necessity.  They are changes over which I have limited or no control.

My long time boss took another job…I decided I would like the new boss before he was hired.

My dear friend retired south – our friendship is now a long-distance relationship, the change couldn’t be avoided. (She is still my dear friend, she is just far away.)

I’m growing older – this means I do things more slowly. It would be silly to pretend that this change has not occurred or rail against it.

When I bought my most recent car, I went from full-size to sub-compact. It was an economic necessity and I decided I could learn to like the little car from the first test drive. (And I do!)

Not accepting the unavoidable changes that life brings would  make me ungrateful for what I have. It would lead to whining and joylessness.  Why would choose that for myself? Instead, I’ve decided to look for the good in change.  Looking for the good in anything makes it easier to live.







Change is hard.

Change is hard.

My daughter cannot tolerate change.  Whether it is stopping one activity and moving to the next one, a new classroom, even new clothes.

She likes  clothes; she has a wonderful sense of style.  But she longs for styles that are from a few years back…when she was a little girl. It’s hard to find what she sees in her mind.

I remember her heartbreak when she had to start buying shoes in the grown up (adult women’s) department.  I remember desperately trying to find her some heavily padded, metallic mint green hightops, with silver hearts…like the ones in the children’s department.

While I, too, long for styles from the past, I can adapt. I can find something to wear that is the next best thing and be satisfied…the jeans I wear now are definitely NOT the stylish jeans of my youth, but as long as they have pockets, I’ve come to embrace their comfort.  The shoes I wear now…well, I’ve come to appreciate comfort there, too.

My daughter cannot look at something new and say, “Wow! this is comfortable!”  Or “Wow, this is  an attractive new style.” She can only look at it and say, “It’s not the same. I want it to  be exactly the way it was.”

I hope someday she will come to see that change can be good. That something new doesn’t have to be exactly the same as something old to be good and satisfying.




New things, 2

I learn new things all the time. How to use social media, how to use new software, how to repair things (thank you, you-tube!). Sometimes, I feel like I have reached capacity; like I cannot learn one more new thing. On those days, as soon as I have reached my brain’s limit, I work on filing, cleaning and doing other fairly mindless tasks. I am fortunate to have a job that lets me manage my own time and work at my own pace.

I like learning new things; it keeps my skills up to date. It gives me confidence that I could find another job if I needed to.

I plan to retire from my current job. I’ll be old enough soon. I have a long list of things to do around the house, in addition to spending more time with my family, that is, my kids and my parents. I will need to work about ten hours a month to make retirement work…and because I’m willing to learn new things, I can do that anywhere.

I hope to learn a lot of new things in retirement, too. Maybe genealogy research. New quilting methods. New repair methods. Maybe, I’ll learn to like cooking! And when I have reached capacity, I’ll take on some mindless tasks here at home.

Case Review – in person

Every six months, the county reviews (the review is called a Semi-annual Administrative Review, or SAR) my daughter’s case  because she is in a planned permanent living arrangement.

A supervisor not connected to her case goes over the records with me, the guardian ad litem, the county developmental disabilities worker, the county children’s board caseworker and her immediate supervisor.  My ex-husband also attends these meetings. The purpose of these meetings is to make sure that no child falls between the cracks; to make sure children get the services they so desperately need.

My daughter and I are fortunate.  My daughter’s case workers are diligent in their efforts on her behalf.  I am sadly aware that not all case workers are as thorough and competent.

The second meeting today did not include my ex-husband. This meeting was not a review, but a future planning meeting.  The issues discussed were guardianship, housing and the supports my daughter will need for a safe and successful future.

This meeting left me with the need to do a lot of studying, investigating. Decisions have to be made soon and I want to make the best possible ones for my daughter.


Case Review

I spent over two hours on conference calls* today. Two separate meetings – one with school staff (ETR meeting) and one with the treatment team(psychiatric and dorm staff).  Both calls included a couple of social workers who drove three hours from our county to attend in person. (My daughter has the best social workers!)

Two hours of reviewing IQ test scores and scores regarding the severity of her autism – all with full explanations of each item. Reviews of  mental health diagnoses.  Observations of teachers and staff .  All of this reinforces what I already know about my daughter’s behaviors, deficits and abilities.

Is it helpful?

Having these meetings and the very detailed results in her  records will help determine the services that are available to her as an adult.  Definitely helpful.

Hearing the difficulties that highly trained staff have with my daughter makes me feel like I am not a crazy woman or incompetent mother. Sad, and maybe selfish, but helpful.

Hearing about her good days makes me happy, and miss her very much. Hearing about the bad days makes me very grateful  for her residential school setting. Both helpful, but heartbreaking.

Tomorrow – two more meetings, this time in person, here in our home county.  I trust those meetings will be helpful, too.



*I don’t attend these meetings in  person because my daughter does not attend the meetings – if I am going to drive the three hours to her school,  I want to spend time with my daughter, not staff!







New things, 1

I like my computer. Having learned to type on a manual typewriter, and having made regular use of carbon paper, I am grateful every day for my word processing program. It tries to correct my spelling and grammar for me….sometimes I let it. The copier at work is a huge improvement over any mimeograph.

I learned to do bookkeeping on a real set of books: oversized journals and ledgers. The computerized bookkeeping program does all the math for you. Easy peasy. But I still confirm the debits and credits with an adding machine.

My phone has the capability to text (even talk to text) and remember phone numbers. I don’t use those features…my brain needs the exercise of remembering the phone numbers of the people I call.

So many of the new electronic gadgets and methods try to eliminate the need to think. I don’t think that is a good thing. My brain gets lazy when I don’t use it.  In a power outage, I can still function…there are a lot of people I know that can’t function without the gadgets…Can’t make change, can’t dial a phone, can’t think.

Decision Time

My daughter has a lot of meetings coming up within a week….well, that is not exactly true. On her behalf,  I have a two phone conferences, two meetings (requiring a vacation day from my work) and a special trip to see her with my son.

These meetings will begin the groundwork for her future plans. She will be included in the planning after her guardian ad litem, social workers and I hash out some basics. We want her to have a say in her future, too. My family has been very blessed to have very dedicated and conscientious social workers – from multiple agencies. They make the long trip to see her every month, and drive up for the meetings  that I attend by phone. (I attend some meetings by phone because I would not be able to see my daughter that day – she is in school. I save my trips for days I can actually see her and spend time with her.)

A group home of some kind is in her future; about the time I retire. The hope is that she will live closer than the current three hour distance that separates us. I’d love to see her more often.

Alternative Weaponry

When I was writing (ranting?) about guns, I mentioned my daughter’s alternative weaponry. (Her hands, feet, nails and teeth were formidable, too.)

There have been a number of interesting weapon choices.

  • Electric Fan
  • Cupholder broken off my car
  • Pen
  • Brick
  • Toy guitar
  • Book

You would be surprised how much damage you can do with these items – damage to people and property.

If any other teen came after me, in my house, with these items – I would have picked up the nearest heavy object and decked them. But this was my daughter – and I did not want to hurt her. So when necessary, I used my weight as a weapon; I tackled her and sat on her until the police arrived.

The policemen(and women) who responded to domestic violence calls at my house were always kind and professional. I could not possible thank them enough for their help during those difficult times.

Guns part 2

There was a shooting on my street last night. Around 11:00pm. The 25 year old victim was driven to the hospital. There haven’t been many details in the news…that kind of local news really doesn’t get much coverage. I slept through the shooting, though it was just a couple doors away. My dogs never barked. There was no sense of immediate danger.

I cannot for the life of me imagine what kind of beef might exist between the shooter and the victim. How does someone decide to use a gun to settle a ‘score?’

What happened to stepping outside and settling things with your fists? or better yet, to argue or debate an issue intelligently? When did it become a standard option to settle differences with gunfire?

My friend told me it is becoming the “wild west” here. That is unacceptable. In almost 30 years, I have never been afraid in this neighborhood – and I am not about to start being afraid now.

Guns part 1

I don’t keep a gun in my house. Am I against guns? No. I believe strongly in the right of law-abiding citizens to bear arms. (My personal choice of gun would be a shotgun with the shortest, legally allowable barrel and it would be only used to protect myself were there to be an intruder inside my home.)

While I am not against guns, I am against stupidity. Having a gun in my home with my daughter around would be have been stupid. (There are actually a lot of alternative ‘weapons’ that my daughter should not be around – but that is a topic for another day.)

I know my daughter. She has irrational thought processes and a hair trigger temper. I decided long ago that it would not be appropriate to have a gun in the house. What she might do in a fit of rage, would haunt her forever. Not to mention, she might kill me.

Now, I know about gun safety; locking up the ammunition away from the gun, trigger locks, gun safes, etc.

There are not enough safety mechanisms to insure that my daughter wouldn’t gain access. I don’t believe that a policeman answering a domestic violence call should have to wonder if the gun pointed at him by an angry teenager is loaded or disabled by a lock. My daughter, should never have even the most remote chance to access any gun.

I don’t like to cook.

I fired up the crock pot to make a beef roast (a teeny, tiny roast!) for dinner. I find I am eating a lot of pork chops (I freeze them individually), meatballs, and soups these days.  Easy to make in quantity and/or freeze in individual servings. Beef roast for two days will be a nice change of pace.

I’ve never really enjoyed cooking – well, some of my kid-friendly recipes, like octopus dogs, were fun to make for my enthusiastic children, but octopus dogs are not exactly a homemade gourmet masterpiece. (In case you don’t know, they are hotdogs cut before boiling so they will look like an octopus when done)

Maybe it is the budgetary constraints that limit cooking creativity here at my house.

Maybe it is the time I’d rather spend doing something else.

Maybe it is the chirping of the smoke detector that criticizes my technique.

I really don’t know why I dislike cooking, I just do.

If I invite you for a meal, and I’ve cooked for you rather than serve take out, just know you should feel very honored.


I have a sign in my kitchen that says “Ambiguity – what happens in vagueness stays in vagueness.” I put the sign up because I love puns and it made me laugh. But the more I walk past it the more aggravated it makes me….because it’s true.

When I don’t say what I want or need, when I use idioms or use euphemisms to describe things, when I use any vague expression, I am unlikely to get what I want or need.

I need to talk to everyone like I talk to my daughter, who takes everything literally. Leaving vagueness behind. Does that mean I will get everything I want? No…but I won’t be disappointed due to miscommunication.

For instance, I have a friend who can’t say ‘no.’ He will say ‘maybe,’ which is just a way to avoid confrontation. I suffered a lot of frustration until I realized ‘maybe’ was just his vague way of saying ‘no.’ I don’t like having to interpret what someone really means when they are vague – it leads to fear and loathing in vagueness.

To my son, those puns are for you!!!

The Line.

I am very easy going. I rarely get angry. It’s how I am wired. And most of the time that is a very good thing. There really aren’t that many things in life that are worth fighting about. (I will fight to the death to protect my children, of course.)

But sometimes things build up. It will be that last thing, one thing too many, that pushes me over the line. I ‘ll give you an example.

During my divorce, while my stress was high, the phone wire to the house was sagging badly. It was sagging because the phone company had twisted the wire around a tree branch to shorten the line and hold it up high when it was installed. Even I know that was not a good installation. A garbage truck driving down the street took the sagging line out. (It sounded like a truck hit the house!)

It was the worst possible time for me to have to deal with one more thing!

When the repairman came to reattach the wire to the house, I met him at the bottom of his ladder and asked where he planned to attach the wire. He indicated that he was planning to attach the wire near a second story window. Then he asked me why I was carrying a saw. I told him what the old installation looked like and that I planned to cut down any branch he wrapped a wire around. He laughed nervously and got to work.

I had reached my limit and I was ready to fight.  Looking back, I wonder if he thought I was crazy.


Family Weekend again.

Another family weekend has come and gone. I enjoy the time with my daughter very much. Our usual activities are games, reading the Barberton Herald, talking, and texting my son.

I always enjoy having her stay overnight with me, but this time she couldn’t stay at the hotel. Her behavior had been a little rough the week before. After our day together, Saturday, I was exhausted, and since I was alone, I enjoyed an extremely early bedtime. The hotel is very nice: clean, comfortable and reasonably quiet. (The pool is sometimes out of order, but since I do not swim, I don’t consider this an inconvenience at all.) The internet connection is speedy, but this time I didn’t even turn on the computer. I just rested.

As much as I enjoy time with my daughter, it is exhausting.  I wonder sometimes how I managed when she was at home. The never-ending, confusing conversations, constant vigilance….maybe I just notice it more since it is only one weekend a month.

I plan to make an extra trip this month. My son is going with me; not overnight, just for the day. He is my daughter’s favorite person. I am smiling as I type this – thinking of how her eyes light up when she sees him.

Mincing words.

As much as I love words, I often find I leave many things unsaid.

Do I tell my children and other family members I love them? of course.

Do I say everything I want to say when I see my friends? probably not.

I tend to be a  listener, an observer, and I often turn the conversation back to the person I am with.  With a couple questions, I can change the subject and just listen. It is easier than holding up my end of the conversation – especially if the subject is touchy.  I’m not talking about politics and religion here. I’m talking about the state of the friendship, interpersonal issues.

It’s not that I don’t have much to say; it’s that I don’t always know what to say, or if it is the right time to say it.  I’m never sure just what my audience, that is the friend I am talking to, will tolerate.

That’s why I write.

When people recognize themselves  or others in my posts, they often contact me; it opens the door to further discussion.

When those folks are on the dense side,  they don’t even realize I am describing them – and I don’t get any push-back.  But that also means there is no resolution and the issues remain in limbo.  It’s a cowardly way to operate, isn’t it?




You will notice this blog doesn’t have many photos. That is to preserve my children’s privacy.   People who know my children already know the stories I share. And they know exactly what my children look like.

But, there is another reason: I really like words.

I love to read and see in my mind what the writer is describing.   My mental images are   vivid and  detailed; far more interesting than a photo. My mind fills in the blanks where the descriptions are lacking.

I think that is why I always prefer reading the  book over watching the movie.  (And those movies that I do enjoy are always heavy on dialogue, really good dialogue:  The Moon is BlueAll about Eve. It’s about the words!)

Now, I don’t for a minute think that my words are so wonderfully descriptive that you can see everything I describe exactly as it is. But I do hope my fondness for those people and places comes through…and I hope you use your imagination to fill in the blanks.


Dog responses.

My dogs are relaxed and lazy most of the time; they are very nearly cats.  A dog barking nearby will make them sit up and take notice, but they rarely join in. When the wind howls, or thunder roars, they come and sit quietly at my feet. They just look at me for reassurance that all is well.

Music  attracts the dogs’ attention. They like Bob Marley.  They wag in time to the reggae beat and become very mellow.  I’ve been told that the boy dog grew up with reggae; I don’t know why it appeals to the girl dog.  They both hide when I play my Traveling Wilburys cd, aware it signals time for housework and the vacuum cleaner.

Recently, the girl dog has started barking at the tv.  Truth be told, she only recently started barking at all.  What is it on the tv that makes her bark? Trucks, heavy machinery,  roaring cars, airplanes, helicopters.  These are the real-life noises that cause her to bark, too.   It is a bark that clearly expresses annoyance.  Do the machine noises hurt her ears? Or do they remind her of something that happened long ago?

Do the dogs bark when someone comes onto the porch? Yes. Since I started ordering from Chewy, they think every footfall on the porch is bringing them food, treats or toys and they respond with great noisy joy.  This is not a scary “Beware of Dog” noise; this is a the dog equivalent of the way I feel when my Chinese food or pizza arrives.

I like the way that you can see so clearly what they are thinking/feeling by the way they respond; I wish people were more like that.



Other thoughts on letters.

My daughter is not the only one to whom I send notes or cards. I send notes or cards to others,  to let them know they are thought of fondly or encourage them when they are having a rough time.

I never expect a response; these notes are not part of an ongoing correspondence. No, writing is the best way for me to communicate what I am thinking.

Writing, rather than a telephone call, allows me to weigh my words; to revise my choice of words  and make sure my point is clear.

I have always preferred writing letters.   I have always hated talking on the phone…even as a teenager.  I have a couple friends who will call me to chat; and while I am always happy to hear from them, and very glad they continue to call me, it is unlikely I will initiate a call to them.

Oddly enough, I don’t like texting or messaging very much either….better than a phone call, but not nearly as good as a letter.

And while I never expect to receive a note or letter in response to my own, I am tickled on those rare occasions when I do receive one.

And  how do I feel about in-person conversations?  Well, that’s a topic for another day.



Writing letters.

I write a lot of letters to my daughter. I made a commitment, when she could no longer be at home, to keep in touch with her as much as possible. The distance of her placements has limited visits, and phone calls are allowed on weekends only. So I write to her.

Now, there is not that much going on in my life, or my family’s life, to fill my two letters a week.  So my letters are not long. They are printed or typed, since it is hard for my daughter to read cursive. (If you saw my handwriting, you would understand why!)

One letter will be more serious, encouraging her to go to school and stay out of trouble. Often this letter will remind her when I will see her next.

The other letter comes ‘from’ the dogs; or at least recounts something silly that they have done.  A silly joke or a picture of her favorite anime or game character might be included in this second letter, too.

I  never get a response – even though I have sent her self-addressed envelopes and cards.  Whether or not she writes back to me is not the point. My letters let my daughter know that I think of her, even though we didn’t talk that day. They make her feel connected to family here;  and I do hear from her staff that she is happy to receive them.




On the value of time.

Working on my future plans has reminded me just how much  value  I place on time.

I have often felt the conviction that I am stingy with my time.

Money, I hold loosely.  Stuff? there is not much that I have that I wouldn’t share with someone who needed or wanted it.

But ask me for time?

I’m not saying I won’t drop everything to help a friend or family member. No, I do that gladly.

But I am often annoyed and impatient with people who, from my perspective, have wasted my time, even though I waste plenty of time myself.


Stuck, part 4

While I’ve worked out how my retirement income, expenses, and time might work, I am still trying to figure out whether I want to pursue companionship when I retire.

I have friends, good friends, and I am not lonely.  I enjoy living alone. But I realized a few months ago that I was missing day-to-day domestic life.  When I realized that, no one was more surprised than I was.

I still haven’t decided what I want to do about that.  I wouldn’t say that I am ‘stuck’ on this issue. I would describe it as ‘processing.’ You know, that little circle that goes around and around when your computer is ‘thinking.’

I looked back to see how long ago I wrote about missing domestic life. It was in a post from last December –

Thoughts about being alone.


Stuck, part 3

I have been working on getting un-stuck recently. Since my friend asked me about my retirement plans, I haven’t been able to get my future  off my mind. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, praying, and planning.

What will retirement look like for me?

I  know I will need to work about 10-12 hours a month to stay afloat and finance my house’s fix-it projects.  Most of those projects are low-cost and just require a lot of time and elbow grease.

I really don’t care for travel. (I am always happy to hear about others’ travels, but I truly have no desire to do it.) So, when I retire, I will  happily spend time at home.

My daughter and parents will require more of my time. Retiring will give me the time I want to spend with family.

Then there is school. I love taking classes in the 60+ program. This keeps my brain busy and gets me out of the house.  Being retired will allow me to take early morning classes, rather than evening classes, and allow me to select from a wider variety of subjects.  Did I mention it is FREE?

I have been practicing living at the lower income level I will have at retirement…and am relieved to report it is definitely doable. And working out this plan has made me realize just how much I value time.

I’m no longer feeling ‘stuck’ …at least about retirement.



Stuck, part 2

I’ve personally experienced a different kind of ‘stuck.’  It’s not  a developmental  issue, like my daughter.

No, this is different.  Maybe ‘oblivious ‘would be a better word for my issue.

For a long time I didn’t realize I was stuck (see, I WAS oblivious)… not moving forward…not making future plans.

One reason for that is that things with my daughter were so unsettled.  I was so focused on her future, that I forgot to think about my own.  When I did make plans for myself, like planning to retire at 62, it was because that plan coincided with plans for my daughter. My 62nd birthday is about when she will graduate from high school and move closer to family.  I want to be more available to her when she moves closer.

But there is another reason for it, as well: I wasn’t sure what I wanted.  I really hadn’t spent any time figuring out what my future would look like! or what I wanted it to look like!

How did I figure this out?  One day, my friend asked me what I planned to do when I retired.  It was then that  I realized I really didn’t have a plan and that I really wasn’t sure what I wanted. My friend has a way of asking questions that really make me think!



I’ve been writing about some silly subjects in order to avoid writing about this one. I have been mulling it over in my mind for some time and yet I don’t have any insights into how to address it.

It’s about being ‘stuck.’

It’s something that came up at a recent family weekend, during a lecture. I have no doubt it is true. I see it in my daughter and I see it in other women I know. (I am not singling out women; I just don’t have many close friends that are men.)

It’s something that happens with traumatic events (that includes the onset of mental illness or addiction) that causes emotional growth/maturity to get stuck at the age when the traumatic event occurred.

It’s possible  to work past some of it, maybe more easily if you don’t have intellectual or additional developmental issues, to deal with, too.

I don’t know if my daughter will get past that – she is 17 going on 6.  I don’t really know if she has the intellectual capacity – but I do plan to make every effort to help her grow up, to get un-stuck and move forward in every way possible. I want her to be her best possible self.



I realize that the opposite of a compliment is an insult. But sometimes there is something in between; the ‘compliment’ just isn’t very, well, complimentary. Some people call them left-handed compliments…but since they aren’t really very clever, that is an insult to left-handed people everywhere.

I’m not talking about mis-speaking,  when the words coming out of your mouth don’t match the compliment your brain wanted to say. (When people do that you can see they are mortified!)  And I’m not talking about very direct insults – words that are clearly meant to be mean. Non-compliments are passive-agressive comments….you casually act like you are saying something nice, when you are really just being catty.

“Oh, you used  a  new pattern this time, didn’t you?” is not the same as saying, “Nice jacket.”

“Wow, you’re wearing makeup today!” is the non-compliment version of “You look especially nice today!”

“I like that  so much  better than the one you had on yesterday!”  is a non-compliment, too.

“I would never have thought of wearing those two (or in my case, three or four) colors together!”

“You like the way you wear your hair, don’t you?” I could go on and on.

My grandma, and I imagine most grandmas, used to say, “If you can’t say any anything nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”

The non-compliment version would be, “If you aren’t sure you have something nice to say – (implying  you are just not that smart) – keep your thoughts to yourself.” The kicker is, I would never say that to someone – because it isn’t nice!”



I don’t drink, so I don’t have to worry about sending drunken texts.  But I am all thumbs (not in a good way) when it comes to texting/messaging.

My son has had some good laughs over my texts. I learned the hard way that I MUST wear my glasses when I text…even if the message is sent from the larger screen and keyboard of my computer. And because I often text folks whose first language is not English, I spell out every word and use proper grammar and punctuation.

Recently I sent a message to the wrong friend. A valentine message. It was not mushy or romantic, so there was no harm. I just felt a little stupid…and the recipient was very polite, but a little confused.

It could have been a disaster!

Maybe the lesson I learned from this experience is one I should have learned in kindergarten – if you can’t share it with everyone, don’t share it at all. Of course, if I do send you a confusing message, wishing you love, just accept it – I’m sure you deserve it.


Some thoughts about – Shoes

I love shoes. Over the years I have had some fabulous, and fabulously uncomfortable, shoes. But it’s the red ones that own my heart.

The red shoe-lust started when I was just a girl. My aunt took me shopping for shoes. Milton’s Shoe Box on Copley Road. I must have been 8 or 9 years old. These shoes were to be my Sunday dress up shoes. Sunday shoes were black patent in fall and winter, and white patent in spring, in time for  Easter,  and summer.

On this very memorable shopping trip, however, I spied a pair of candy-apple red shoes in the window. I was in love. My aunt knew my mom would not be happy with red shoes and make me return them – so my aunt let me wear them home so that they would be non-returnable.

I wore those shoes whenever I could – with any color dress. I wore them until my feet could no longer squeeze into them.

I’ve had many pairs of red shoes since then, different styles, different heel heights and levels of comfort. All quite expensive and resoled several times to extend their lives.

Even now, I occasionally wear red shoes – of course , now they are sneakers, machine washable, very comfortable and practical. But I can tell you if I am wearing these, my mind is on that first pair of red shoes, and it puts a spring in my step. One of my friends always notices and says, “you’re wearing your happy shoes today!” She’s right!





Some thoughts about – Hair

Over the years, I have made some interesting hair decisions. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, with my shoulder length hair, uncolored and pinned back purely for convenience, but I was in my younger days, a slave to hair fashion.

I have died my brown hair red, frosted it, had uni-perms, spiral perms, even a home perm(only one of those – I learned my lesson.)  I have have had very short hair, waist length hair, bangs, layered and feathered styles….and before I was old enough to choose: an assortment of Pixie cuts.

I have used hot rollers, curling irons, an iron for crimping and straightening, blow dryers and gallons of hair spray. I braided (I braided it a lot back in the seventies – lol) rolled, pin-curled and even rag-rolled my then, thick wavy hair.

I spent a lot of time trying to make it look ‘just right .’ I cringe to think of the time spent (it took hours to roll up my perms) to change my look.

Looking back at these lists, it is amazing to me that I still have hair. Post menopause my hair is thinner (not too thin) and extremely straight, still mostly brown, but starting to grey. I’ve become comfortable with it – and that I wish I would have done sooner.





Actions can have huge impact.

I’m not talking accidents or crime – although a few years back, when we had a break-in, it caused us to get our first dog… So those teen-aged thieves certainly did have an impact on us!

I was thinking about more positive impacts. For instance:

The lovely nurse at the doctor’s office that made my daughter feel so at ease. This was at a time when everything was a struggle, and this nurse erased her fears and made her feel important.

The young man, a host at Cracker Barrel, who treats our family so kindly. He always fusses over my parents, especially my dad. It makes my dad so visibly happy!

The young man who plows our parking lot at work, and goes out of his way to salt where I park and walk. He checks the parking lot even when no events are scheduled – just for me. I appreciate it so much!

The dear friend who sent me chicken when I was going through a divorce. Yes, I said chicken. It was the most practical expression of sympathy and support I have ever experienced! And it provided delicious meals for days.

These actions have a huge impact; they make life better. These individuals, their actions, make me consider… what kind of impact have I had  today?


Recently, at Family Weekend, we had a guest speaker (a prescriber) to parents about meds.

It was interesting to hear how meds are developed, and how they are used off label.

It was frightening to hear about the possible side effects  and interactions they can have.

It was educational to hear how long it might take for a new med to work. (My daughter thinks meds work as soon as you swallow them – like in the commercials.)

It was horrifying to hear that generics can contain only 70% of the active compound and still be considered “equivalent.” And it was equally horrifying to hear how many of the drugs are manufactured in China and India – far from the eyes of American inspectors.

My daughter’s meds have been helpful. There is no doubt about that. (We have had one or two over the years that were the opposite of helpful! I keep a ‘blacklist.’)

I am grateful that she is covered by medicaid and that  I don’t have to figure out how to pay for her meds.

I am  aware that  vigilance is necessary: Self monitoring for side effects and other issues is beyond her current capability, so I do need to look out for her.

I am thankful that she has been compliant in taking her meds, so far. As she becomes an adult – I realize that could change.  Since I try not to borrow future trouble, I will  choose to remain hopeful that as she matures, she will see the value in her med routine. And as that routine changes, I hope she will learn from watching me, what questions to ask the doctor or pharmacist – and ask them.



You can’t get there from here.

I live in a neighborhood dissected by a steep hill, an interstate and railroad tracks. Roads stop, start and sometimes turn into stairs, or a foot path. There is no designation assigned to the streets, like north or west, to clarify the sections.  Sometimes the closest  route by car is several blocks or a half mile away.   Locals will tell you the nearest cross-street and hope you can find them. In a local neighborhood, this  might be considered charming.

However, construction projects in our town have produced a whole new level of “You can’t get there from here.”

I can see the local university, downtown, from my kitchen…up here on the steep hill. Getting to school is easy – the route may change a little, day-to-day, due to highway construction, but I can get there,  as long as I pay attention to which lanes are open today.

Coming home is another story.  I can see the hill where I live…..but the trick is figuring out how to get there.  Damage to a nearby bridge (this accident could not be anticipated) has disrupted traffic.  Emergency repairs to the interstate (now, think about  just how big a chuckhole must be to require immediate, lane-closing repairs) eliminated my usual route.  The downtown roads that are open during their construction have constant lane changes – and driving through them at night is no pleasure.

I do make it home, eventually, but my 5 minute drive often takes 15 or 20.

Now, I don’t dispute that some of the traffic changes and new construction are necessary.  But I do think it might be better to finish one project before starting the next one (if it’s not an emergency).  And maybe the newly popular* ‘right-sizing’  or lane reducing of major roads, like our local business district boulevard, could wait until all surrounding road projects are completed.

*popular with the “experts”, not drivers


Bubblegum Pink

I like bold colors, but I am NOT a fan of pink. When my daughter was little, she loved green – a lot of her clothes were still pink (have you ever shopped for little girls? Pink is inevitable.) but green was her favorite.

As she grew, she decided she would like her room to be pink. It had been beige, with lines of ivy and a border of little cottages, gender neutral, and very calm, since it had started out as a guest room for adults.

We looked for wall paper that she might like at the discount shop. We found a border that she loved…pink ballet shoes, with ‘photos’ of grown up ballerinas in pink tutus…ballerinas that were a variety of shades of brown. It was perfect. Even with a ballerina theme, I figured she would enjoy the border for a long time.

Once she found the border, she was done shopping. She left it to me to find the pink paper for the rest of the room and the pink paint for the ceiling. She was very serious about the shade of pink he wanted – bubblegum pink. I found paper with several shades of irregular pink boxes that had a companion paper of bubblegum pink with circles and cartoon-ish daisies. I bought both and I asked the salesman to match paint to a pale shade of pink in the paper. I painted the ceiling and trim and got to work hanging paper.

My daughter’s room is as large as my own, and it took the better part of a week to get the room done, working evenings and all day Saturday. My daughter loved it and it suited her. It was bright and happy …and despite what you might think from my descriptions of the wallpaper….it looked really nice. Really pink, but really nice.

She enjoyed it very much for a couple years before she destroyed it. She put huge holes in the plaster, right down to the lath when she lost her temper.

When I had the holes repaired – the gentleman who repaired my walls, wouldn’t charge me, God bless him – I decided the pink had to go. Even then, I knew it was unlikely that my daughter would be coming home to stay. I removed the pink wallpaper and painted over the pink ceiling and trim. I took up the carpet and finished the hardwood floor.

The room is pale blue and beige,  once again gender neutral and very,  very calm.

Time change

Daylight Savings Time comes March 10.  I love the lighter evenings….but I hate the time change.

Why? In the fall I spend weeks trying to convince my dogs that it is NOT time to get up. I pull the covers over my head, but they grunt and snort and try to find me with their cold wet noses until I give up, get up and feed them, an hour earlier than  needed.

In the spring, I spend weeks trying to convince them it IS time to get up. Pulling the 50# mutts out of bed and herding them outside is not how I like to start my day.

I remember when my son came home all excited from school one fall day and informed me that starting that Sunday, days would have 25 hours per day.  He had misunderstood his teacher  and he thought all the days would be longer, not just the one day when we changed the clocks.

It really doesn’t matter how many hours are  in the day – there are never enough, yet I still manage to fritter many of them away.

Maybe I’m the one who needs schooled on time – not the dogs.




From the Grandma Files, again

Grandma was a cheater. Checkers, cards; at any game we asked her to play, she cheated.  I wondered for a while if it was being hard of hearing, not understanding the rules…..but no. She just cheated.

And not just at games.  When she read books to us, she skipped sentences, paragraphs and pages, whatever she could get away with.

When my sisters were little, they got even.  She would read to them at nap time, and thinking they were asleep, she would tip-toe down the stairs.  They would wait until she went all the way down the stairs before they yelled very loudly, in sing-song voices, “Grandma, we’re not sleeping.’  She would climb up the stairs and read again.

She was an interesting babysitter.  Lots of polka music on the stereo: Frankie Yankovic.

When we did something we weren’t supposed to, (while she was napping) she covered for us.  I remember my sisters trying to catch the guppies in the 10 gallon fish tank with a comb. Why a comb? Who knows.  They were quite successful, though. Grandma scooped up the poor little guys, after they stopped flopping and put them back in the tank. We were adults before my mother found out why her fish raising efforts were unsuccessful!


Family Weekends

Monthly, I attend family weekends with my daughter.  The facility where she resides reserves hotel rooms and provides meals so families can spend time together.

I always go. Sometimes my daughter’s behavior is excellent in the weeks before, and she gets to spend the night at the hotel with me. Many times, her behavior is not good, and she comes over to the daytime events, returning to the facility overnight. Either way, we get to spend hours and hours together and I love that.

Something always puzzles me at the weekends, however.

The rules are very rigid; this is necessary for the young people who reside at the facility.  This is a group who sees things black and white; something is, or isn’t acceptable.  For this group there is no in between – they understand the rules and  most try hard to follow them. This part is not puzzling.

What puzzles me are the family members (just a few) who come, and ignore the rules. We are not talking criminal activity here. We are talking about things like: No cellphone use during programming, or no outside food or drink during programming.

I do follow the rules – I want my daughter to see that  I think it is important. I want her to know that she is capable of following rules….of doing what is expected.   I want her to understand that life is easier when you do what you are supposed to do.  And I don’t want the distraction of a cell phone during the precious time I have with her; she is far more  important than the latest music video, text message or tweet.







My other grandma.

Whenever I write about my grandma – I usually mean my mom’s mom. We saw her very often.

Although my dad’s mom lived just as close, we didn’t see her very much. She was busy raising my cousins.  She would have been about my age when my uncle died. I cannot imagine taking in three rambunctious boys at 60.

My memories of her are limited. I remember her wearing boy’s tennis shoes (sneaker options for women were different than they are now).  At the time I wondered why. Now I know: her feet hurt.

As she aged, her hair remained mostly brown, and I don’t think she colored it – because mine is the same way.  In fact, when I look in the mirror, I often wonder at how my grandma’s face is looking back at me.

She was an accomplished knitter and crocheter. I still have the little blue afghan she made for me.  While I knit ( dishcloths and hats only – I  cannot for the life of me get pairs of things, like socks or mittens,  to come out the same size), I have never been very good at deciphering the instructions for crochet.

The colors she picked for some of her projects were outrageously bright; something else we have in common. I wonder if she had some color blindness, too?

It’s a special day.

Today is my friend’s birthday.  When I wish my friend well today, this is what I mean:

  • may you wake up from a good night’s sleep, in a warm, comfortable bed
  • may you feel as well as possible (face it – we’re old and stuff hurts – lol)
  • may you receive many loving greetings from family and friends
  • may you have time for fun, without  any guilt about using your time for yourself
  • may you have a deep sense of security and a genuine feeling of calm
  • may you have hope for a future that includes peace, love and happiness
  • may you sit down to good food on the table,  and have good company with whom to share it
  • may you have cake (because everybody needs cake)


Birthday cake adventures

This was posted two months ago. For some technological reason I do not understand, this post got all messed up when you scrolled past  – so I deleted the original and am trying it again.

I usually bake my kids’ birthday cakes. I am no baking/decorating master, but I have managed to make a number of acceptable, even a couple exceptional, cakes over the years.

When it was my daughter’s birthday, we would sometimes be on vacation with extended family in the Outer Banks. She would know we were going to celebrate, and even pick out the cake – but she wanted us to all to yell “Surprise” when she came in the room. She expected it and enjoyed it, so we did it.

My kids’ birthday cake adventures were pretty tame compared to two of my own experiences.

First, I remember a birthday cake my aunt ordered – a doll in a hoop-skirt cake with a big cardboard and frosting hat. Well, the candles were too close to the hat. You can imagine the rest. Exciting and memorable. All the other birthdays celebrated with my aunt run together. Only the flaming disaster stands out. What I learned from this experience – you remember more of what goes wrong than what goes right.

Second, there was the banana cake incident. We were high-school age, a few girls celebrating a birthday at my friend’s house. I baked a scratch banana cake with cream cheese icing – it was perfect. When the birthday girl went to cut the cake, it was too close to the edge of the coffee table and flipped frosting side down onto the living room carpet. We laughed so hard that we spilled a glass of cider onto the mess. We, being responsible girls, decided to clean up our mess with the vacuum cleaner. Needless to say the vacuum was never the same. Fortunately, someone else had baked a second cake and the party went on. What I learned from this experience – always have a back-up cake.


I used to watch a cartoon called ‘Fractured Fairy Tales’ when I was a kid.  Puns everywhere. It is the kind of cartoon I enjoy watching even now.

I don’t know if it was this cartoon that inspired my telling of the ‘Three Bears’ fairy tale to my son.  I do know that he was truly frightened of Goldilocks for many years.  Here was a girl who would come uninvited into your house to eat your food and break your stuff! He found it frightening.  I probably should have read him a standard version from a children’s book…a version where Goldilocks ran away, afraid of the bears.

I think back often about the stories my children liked me to tell them or read to them. Sitting on the couch reading to them, or telling them stories was one of my favorite parental responsibilities. No, make that one of my favorite parental privileges.

A Neighbor

My neighbor was a good cook, a very good cook. I remember the smell of garlic and onions coming from her house as I came home from work. At canning season, the smell of tomato sauce and a variety of peppers filled the neighborhood. Like my grandma, she used the high wall of her back porch to cool her pies and set her jello at Thanksgiving – that back porch was an extension of her busy kitchen. When my son was born, she brought me a casserole…it was delicious.

My neighbor often offered my young son a cookie when we were out for a walk. We would stop and chat while my son ate his cookie, waiting patiently to move on so he could look for interesting rocks and bugs. My son asked  more than once why her cookies and other baked goods tasted so much better than mine. It made her smile to hear him say that.

The neighborhood has changed since she moved away. Oh, I still have good neighbors, but illness and age keeps them inside. Some, like me, work irregular schedules. There is still the feeling, that in an emergency, you could knock on any door and someone would help. But there aren’t neighbors sitting on the porch, waiting for a chance to talk. Or share a cookie.

Future Shock.

My daughter is approaching age 18, so there is a lot of planning going on about her future.  Some of the planning involves her team of social workers, and me. Some of it includes her directly.

When I adopted her at age 46(she was 3), I never imagined the changes that would take place in both of our lives.  I  did not expect to feel old at 60.  I did not expect to be a single parent.  Am I expressing regret over the adoption? NO. Not at all.  I’m just saying that  my plans back then did not adequately consider rogue events.

I think it is important to plan. I think that  based on what we know about my daughter’s development and her emotional state now, we will come up with a wonderful plan….a plan that will take into account  every situation that we can imagine.  It’s those  situations that are outside our view, beyond our wildest imaginings that could derail the plan. God knows her future. He knows her need. And I am confident that he will provide what she needs even if her team and I can’t foresee it.

Will I lose sleep over the plan, or over her future? No, probably not. I will make every effort to be sensible and careful.  I will consider possible outlying events, and wherever I can, make them  a part of  the plan. That doesn’t  promise planning success, but is does eliminate guilt and regret and those are the things that tend to keep people up at night.


Another page from the Grandma files.

When I was little, my grandma’s dining table had six legs with wide curved stretchers connecting the legs. These stretchers made wonderful roads or parade routes for the decorative salt and pepper shakers she used to let me use as “toys.” A refrigerator box with a dish towel as a curtain on a cut-out window, was a playhouse. The old record player turntable was a steering wheel for my “car.” I played “store” in the fruit cellar. Grandma could fold hankies into babies in cradles and turn little boxes into cribs. Newspapers could be cut into paper dolls.

I spent a lot of time playing at Grandma’s, but I don’t remember there being actual toys there…and I certainly don’t ever remember being bored.

When I got older, imaginative playing gave way to watching silly old movies on Saturday afternoons and sitting on the porch swing; all of us talking, laughing and dozing off after a big lunch. I miss those simpler, quieter days.


Perhaps the biggest challenge that comes with living alone, is cooking for “one.” My crockpot is my friend (my daughter calls it a ‘crackpot!’). Since I don’t mind leftovers, I often plan to eat the same thing all week or freeze servings for busier days. Soup, chili and meat sauce for pasta are frequent preparations. Easy to make, easy to reheat. An occasional roast or batch of pulled pork. I am definitely in a cooking rut.

I have friends that are gourmet cooks; their recipes and ingredient lists are astounding. Like the cooking shows on tv – far removed from the reality of my kitchen.

Here is the kind of cooking show I would like to see:

The competing cooks go to a random home, a home like mine: galley style kitchen, old stove and an oven that may or may not heat to the temperature you dial up. Using just the equipment available in that house and just the ingredients on hand in that house, the competitors have to make an edible meal.

No fancy knives, one mediocre paring knife. No fancy pans – just Farberware or Revereware. no stand mixer – just an egg beater.

Simple seasonings like salt, pepper and Italian seasoning from the dollar store. Ingredients like canned tomatoes, boxed pasta, canned tuna, condensed soup, applesauce and baked beans. (Not to be used all together in one dish – of course!)

There may or may not be butter, milk, flour,eggs or sugar on hand. The produce will be grocery store quality – not fresh from the farm or orchard. The meat or poultry will be from the local supermarket and will be frozen solid because no one defrosted it.

The judges will be picky children – not people who live alone. Why? because when you live alone, you tend to appreciate anything someone else cooks for you!

Off track

Looking back over my posts, I see I have written about a lot of things other than my daughter.

When I write about her, it is often very difficult.  So if you wonder why I get off track, wonder what’s up with the silly family stories: It’s a matter of self-care. Some self-indulgent  writing about happier days, simpler times, and adventures with friends takes my mind off the weight of care giving, and off the pain of loss.

Now, do NOT imagine that my life is a misery – it is not.  I actually consider myself very (undeservedly) blessed.

I have friends who don’t get to choose to take any kind of break.  Their reality is 24/7, ongoing, never-ending care-giving. They have my respect and admiration. I remember having my daughter here at home…the constant stress, the heavy  weight of that responsibility.

I have friends who have suffered the worst possible loss, the death of a child.  I  cannot fully comprehend  the enormity of that grief.   I still get to see my daughter, and although the future for us is not what I imagined when she was little – she is still here, on this earth for me to hug, and I am very, very grateful.


When I think of racing, I do not think of NASCAR, the race in Indianapolis, or drag racing.

When I think of racing, I think of my daughter’s racing thoughts and the resulting one-sided conversations she has with me.

She will be talking to me very fast; it is hard to follow her train of thought – and suddenly she will stop and ask, “Wait, what was I talking about?”

If I’ve been able to keep up with her monologue, I tell her and she will go on. When I can’t keep up (It is easier to keep up in person than on the phone!), she will go on to something else…and when she remembers that first racing train of thought, she will suddenly switch gears.

Now, I come from a family of fast-talkers. I’m used to that.   But my daughter’s words come out at a speed that makes everyone else seem slow!

Funny thing is, while her words and thoughts may race, her walking and working at tasks is very slow. I think to myself sometimes, “If she moves any slower,  she’ll be going backwards!”


About Chicken

I have never made fried chicken. Never.  I have never even investigated fried chicken recipes.  I live in an area with many local  and truly excellent chicken joints, so I never had any reason to cook it myself.  I do cook chicken in other ways: baked, stewed, grilled, paprikashed.  I make chicken a la king, chicken casserole and an assortment of other chicken dishes – just no frying.

My daughter was horrified to find out that ‘chicken’ was really chicken. We eat beef or veal (we don’t call it cow), pork and ham (we don’t call it pig) – so why don’t we have an alias for chicken?  Fortunately, her horror at eating chicken didn’t last long.  She did want to know, though which part was the nugget. Her comment was, “It’s the butt, isn’t it?”  Just thinking about the seriousness on her little face, when she asked…

Similarly, my grandma, upon hearing that we had “chicken fingers” at a fast food place, once remarked quite seriously, “I didn’t realize that chicken had fingers!”

With my sisters and parents, saying “chicken” would bring back the same memory to all of us.  My sisters had a friend who was a very picky eater. Knowing this, my mother always fixed chicken when she came to visit. Every time.  We found out later that this friend thought that chicken was just the only thing my mother knew how to make.



Giraffes in the Kitchen.

4giraffeIn my kitchen there is  giraffe lamp from World Market and a giraffe painting that my daughter made in kindergarten. I love that painting. The giraffe is smiling, surrounded by clear blue sky and he is twisted into a crazy position because he is joyfully dancing. It is a happy picture; it makes me smile when I see it.

Some of my kitchen wallpaper has sky blue and red stripes and some of my kitchen wallpaper has giraffes. Now, if I didn’t point out the giraffes, gazelles and ostriches in my wallpaper, you might not notice them. They are beige animals in a colonial style wallpaper that I bought – wait for it – because I liked the colors.  The red, green and blue plants that surround those beige creatures match the style and colors of the cross-stitch samplers hanging in the kitchen. It’s hard to explain, but it really all coordinates quite nicely.

This is not the wallpaper I was hanging when a friend passed away – I mentioned that in a recent post.  This wallpaper represents a fresh start and happy days. I put it up right before my daughter came home from her first placement.  It was celebratory wallpaper!

Recent happy kitchen memories include meals with  friends and cooking because I choose to – not because I have to.

From the other room, sitting in my recliner, I can see into the kitchen and watch the sunrise through the kitchen’s picture window. The window is framed by a string of  lights; the kind of lights you see strung across the ceiling in an Italian restaurant. They were a gift from my son and they always bring him to mind. He makes me happy, too.

Time to Say Goodbye.

I remember the first time I saw and heard Andrea Bocelli. It was 1997 on public tv during fundraising week. How do I remember? Am I some kind of music memory savant? No. I remember because I was wallpapering my kitchen.

That was what I was doing when the phone call came. A friend had died; he had been very sick for some time. He had survived a lung transplant that extended his life a few years, but he had begun to fail again. I remember thinking about his wife and how lost she must feel after such a long struggle.

That song always makes me think of her. “Time to Say Goodbye.” It isn’t actually the correct translation of the Italian lyrics, it is a phrase added to the song in English to make it suitable for another event, a retirement. (I think the correct translation is more like “I will go with you.”)

I remember seeing her at the hospital after his transplant. I remember how sick he had looked before the operation and how well he looked afterward. I remember her giggling and happy when he came home from the hospital. She adored him. And he loved her. You could see it on both of their faces. You could hear it in the way they spoke to each other.

I remember him using the time after the operation, he felt so much stronger, to make sure everything was good at the house – he made curtains (yes, he could sew; he had been a boy scout!), painted, remodeled. He wanted the house to be trouble-free for her when he passed and he worked hard at that.

I remember the stories they shared about how they met. I remember them bringing dinner to us on the day we moved into our house and telling us about some of their own homeowner experiences. I remember them together. Until he passed away, I don’t really remember seeing one without the other.

It was hard to get her to come out after he passed. She stayed, for a while at the house he had he had so faithfully prepared. Then I lost track of her. I heard she moved in with her son. She was truly heartbroken after he passed away; she missed him so much because she loved him so much; or maybe it was because of the way he loved her,  Either way is just lovely.

“You like me, goat?”

My children and I spent a fair amount of time at the Akron zoo; it’s close to home and the annual membership fee was very reasonable. Both of my children had their favorite parts of the zoo.

When my son was young, my aunt often went along with us. She and I sat and talked while he dug up “dinosaur bones” in the area set aside for digging. We followed him to the playgrounds and watched him ride the pony. The animals were really not the focus of our visits…except the goats. He liked to feed the goats.

Now, my son was a very cautious boy. The goats were as tall or taller than he was. Before reaching out his little hand full of goat crackers or kibble, he would look them in the eye and ask, “Are you a nice goat? You like me, goat?” Now, of course the goats didn’t answer; their eyes were focused on the food in his hand. But he took their silence as agreement – “yes” and “yes.” When they took the food he offered, he would smile and wipe his dimpled little hands on his overalls. (I love overalls on toddlers and preschoolers – if you have a baby and I give you a gift – that is probably what it will be!!!)

Visits to the zoo with my daughter were a little different. We spent a lot of time at the playgrounds, too…zipping down the slides, climbing carefully up the ladders or steps. When my son was with us, he carefully guided her up and down. She always looked to him to determine what was safe, fun, and acceptable behavior. She watched everything he did.

When he got older, my daughter and I would go alone. I have a lot of pictures of her sitting on a giant fiberglass caterpillar and “driving” pretend vehicles. She liked the more recent additions to the zoo….the jellyfish and the interior play areas. Even when she was a little too old/big for those play areas, she enjoyed them….and as long as her behavior was appropriate, I let her play on them with the smaller children who were there.

My daughter’s trips to the zoo were shorter. It was easy to see on her face when it was just all too much and we needed to leave. She would fall asleep, exhausted,  on the five minute ride home.

I miss those trips to the zoo. I think I’d like to go again, just myself…maybe I’ll feed the goats.

Big fat frog

I have a three frogs in my living room, ceramic and glass…and a “mistletoad” that hangs in the doorway year-round.

I did not set out to collect frogs or toads. In fact, my favorite one, the big fat frog, started out as something I didn’t want at all.

We were shopping (my mom, my sisters and me) at a gift shop, on vacation at the beach. My mom wanted me to distract one sister so she could buy a gift  for her elsewhere in the store.

My sister and I were in a section of the store that had bugs and frogs. Now, there was no way I could make my sister believe I wanted a giant ant doll for my living room, so I went for the frog. I really sold it. “He’s so cute. I really like him.”  I kept my sister busy with the big fat frog until my mom had stowed her gift purchase safely in the car.

Later that week I received a gift.  Because I had convinced my sister that I LOVED the big fat frog, she talked my mom into buying it for me. My mom asked her, ‘Are you sure?” It didn’t look like something I would pick.

My sister really worked hard to convince my mom it was what I wanted. She remembered all the things I pointed out about the frog (while I was keeping her busy!) and my mom was convinced…she bought me the big fat frog.

Now when I look at that frog – I think about how my sister went to bat for me and that is what it represents. I got two other, much smaller frogs as joke gifts after that – so big fat frog now has a little frog family.

And the mistletoad? He hangs in the doorway to remind me of something completely different. A kiss. Wow! what a kiss! The mistletoad represents hope of getting kissed like that again. Someday…..











On the Caregiver Road, part 2

I don’t know why it was so easy to form a friendship with my caregiver friend. If I knew what made it easy, I would look for other people with those qualities.

What I do know is this: He is easy to talk to. He doesn’t seem to be offended by my need for alone time (he needs his alone time, too.) He gets my jokes, or at least laughs at the right places. He eats my cooking without complaining and doesn’t think I should wait on him. He expects me to have opinions and doesn’t expect those opinions to be the same as his. He makes me feel like ‘me’…not somebody’s mother, daughter or anything else. Just ‘me.’

My friend is not  perfect,  but he is authentic. (On the rare occasion that he’s tried to be cagey – well, let’s just say that he has an obvious – obvious to me anyway – tell.)

He has great taste in music and likes to sing along and dance… I’m not saying he’s REALLY good – I am saying he  REALLY enjoys it, and that makes those around him enjoy it, too.

My friend is genuinely and rather innocently affectionate, not fresh or grabby. (He would call that ‘frisky.’)

While having a companion on a caregiver journey is helpful, having a companion who is no longer following that same path, who  is changing directions,  makes it hard to stay close.   I expect we will see each other less, communicate less, and continue to move farther apart.  This  friendship will just fade away. There will be no animosity and no regrets.   Hearing my friend’s name, will always make me smile.*

*(I’m hearing Hello, Old Friend, by Eric Clapton in my head…“when he tipped his hat, I knew his name……” )

On the Caregiver Road, part 1

My caregiver friend and I have been friends for about 2 1/2 years. Despite the difference in our life experiences and lifestyles, we bonded over some common things…like care giving, divorce and shared acquaintances.

If you saw my friend, with his hippy-biker style, you might think he was tough, rough. You would be wrong. He is polite, considerate and gentle. Sometimes, a little goofy.

He is the most naturally kind person I have ever met. He took wonderful care of his mother. He treated her gently and lovingly, even when he didn’t feel very well himself.

I always knew this was a friendship just for a time, this care giving time, while we were both traveling this parallel road. My journey on the care giving highway is never going to end. Oh, I’m not stuck in the 24/7 express lane; no, I’m in the local lane with frequent exits and little curving access roads. Since my daughter is not living at home, I can veer away from the care giving highway for brief side trips. I just can’t stray very far.

My friend, who had been stuck in the express lane of constant care, has now, after the death of his mother, been able to exit that road entirely. He looks forward to new and distant adventures…Just as soon as the weather is motorcycle appropriate.

I am very happy for him; he is free to go wherever he wants and is no longer responsible for anyone else. I don’t think I remember that feeling.

I wish him the best – I hope that he will be as kind to himself as he was to his mother. He deserves that.


Long after most children stop taking naps, my daughter still needed them. She required a lot of sleep at night and substantial down-time during the day.

She has a very odd (to me, anyway) way of sleeping. She sits cross-legged, like you would in a yoga class. Then she leans down over her legs, head resting where her calves intersect. Her arms are tucked in the middle, across her waist. I don’t know when we started calling this position “turtle-mode;” I do know it was intended to be descriptive, not mean. She looked like a turtle with all extremities pulled in.

I was NEVER that flexible. It amazed me that she found this position comfortable. (AND STILL DOES!)  I also remember her sitting and watching tv with the soles of her feet on either side of her face. She routinely and absentmindedly stretches into positions that amaze me.


The Grandma Files, part 2

Grandma had an assortment of colorful neighbors over the years…There were neighbors who borrowed fried chicken. Neighbors with unusual names. Neighbors whose dogs brought her Fenton glassware and other collectible offerings.

One young neighbor boy ran into her kitchen and hid under the stove (the stove was up on legs back then). He had seen a blimp in the sky, didn’t know what it was. He thought it was a whale or fish coming to eat him.

An elderly Italian woman wanted to summon the police. Not knowing how to use the phone, and knowing the telephone lines were attached to the poles, she ran out and knocked on the pole, calling “Police, Police.’

Grandma’s next door neighbor routinely came to borrow ice, which made Grandma wonder if the poor girl knew how to make it.


Grandma was the best cook. I have not eaten pork chops anywhere that are as good as I remember hers. And don’t get me started about the gravy. She planned six (yes, you read that number right) pork chops per person when she cooked.

Grandma wore glasses. It didn’t matter if they were hers. If they were handy, she put them on. She would complain, sometimes, that her eyes weren’t very good that day. Those would be the days she was baking; her glasses were covered with flour and it never occurred to her to clean them.

She baked and cooked a lot; if she wasn’t sitting on the couch, she was standing at the stove. If you fussed over something she made, pecan pie for example, she would make it every time you came. I cannot eat pecan pie to this day, because I ate so much of it a kid. I remember warning my friends to compliment the cooking, but not to go overboard – unless they were willing to eat that same food at every visit forever.

She knew she was a good cook and she would often tell stories about how her cooking was better than a neighbor’s, relative’s or other acquaintance’s. One story involved a cherry pie – the baker bragged and bragged about her cherry pies, but didn’t remove the pits. Grandma was incredulous.

At restaurants, Grandma routinely said, “Mine are better.” And she was right!

Her recipes, when they were written down, were not really helpful. “Bake until done” is not a real instruction! A bit, a pinch, a handful – really!

Her grocery lists were not helpful either! Triangles were her shorthand for chicken breasts. Circles were donuts. Or dog treats…and there were some other hieroglyphics that you just had to guess.

Another IEP story.

Last time I wrote about IEPs, it was about a discouraging one. This week we had a IEP meeting that knocked my socks off. (I am thinking about what that expression might look like in my daughter’s very literal mind and chuckling.)

There were nine participants, all fully engaged. Every suggestion, was discussed and then worded or reworded to have the maximum impact on my daughter’s success. Her mental state (her mental health diagnoses and her autism) was truly considered as a factor in her ability or inability to complete her work.

Despite the ice and snow, two workers from my county made the two and a half hour drive to participate in person. Despite a school closing, the school staff came and participated – all of them. The guardian ad litem and I participated in the meeting via phone.

The plans and changes to help her move toward graduation….so encouraging. I look forward to the day when she’ll  be moving closer to home. So encouraging!

The Grandma Files part 1

Grandma was born in 1902. She was 56 years old, and already seemed very old, when I was born. She was quite hard of hearing. My grandma was a short woman, well under 5′ tall, but she was not a small woman. Her clothes came from the half-size department; nowadays, we call it the plus-size department. She wore conservative clothing to church, black and navy blue, no jewelry, but very loud-print cotton house dresses at home. (The prints disguised the tomato sauce and paprika that found their way onto her clothes when she cooked.) The dresses, all of them, always seem to hang longer in the front than in the back, regardless of how they were hemmed. She wore a hat or babushka when she went out, and a very long black coat. Her long, curly white and grey hair was always pinned up on her head with hairpins and a hairnet – unless she was brushing it out. Grandma looked like Aunt Bea on the Andy Griffith show (but not as stylish), and even had that same shrill tone to her voice.

I spent a lot of time at Grandma’s. We (my sisters and I) were there all day most Saturdays, sometimes after church on. Once I was grown, I often visited her in-between. I visited at her house when she live around the corner, and when she moved into an apartment, I visited her there.

I loved being at her house, being with her.

Once Grandma passed away, I continued these visits with my Aunt, who lived with her ….but those stories, stories about my Aunt, are for another day.

Grandma had her special place on the sofa. Her seat. I don’t ever remember her sitting anywhere else. That sofa – it was the color of paprika, burnt orange; the upholstery fabric was bullet-proof. The furniture was always in the same arrangement – at her house nothing ever changed.

One day, a neighbor kid came to visit. He was very fond of Grandma, and her cookies, and stopped to visit whenever he came to town. His comment was, “Everything is always the same here, nothing ever changes.” It was intended as a compliment. And it was true, nothing ever changed there. She never fussed if the house was clean enough for company; she always said they came to see her, not the house. And she was right.

Everyone was always welcome, but I will say she preferred her grand-childrens’ friends, because she “didn’t like to be around ‘old’ people.” I remember her saying that she didn’t know how she got so old, that she still felt young on the inside. I didn’t understand her comment then, but I do now.

Lawrence of Arabia

Just for the record, I don’t really like that movie, Lawrence of Arabia, but Peter O’Toole is beautiful in it. Yes, I do mean beautiful, not handsome; if you’ve seen that movie, you will agree. When I saw the framed movie poster at the thrift store, I had to have it. Graphically the poster is striking….and the colors match my bedroom perfectly. Red, gold, brown, orange. (Yes, I admit I buy artwork because I like the colors.)

My room, like the rest of my house is colorful. Red and gold fabric-look walls, boldly patterned borders, a red rug, old furniture, a Moroccan travel poster, a funky round mirror and Lawrence. My room is “exotic-on-a-budget.”

Now, I have no desire to actually go and see Arabia or Morocco. I hate to travel and I have never had a passport. I dislike flying and I prefer to sleep in my own bed every night. But I do like to think about far away places. I watch travelogues on tv and movies. I prop up against my white iron headboard, snuggle in under my orange and red comforter, and read. The books take me far away. The warm colors and vibrant patterns in my room make me feel warm and happy; they please me.


And we’re back on the roller coaster again.

I was eager to talk to my daughter; she had been on the upswing when I saw her at family weekend.

When she called today she was tearful and upset. We are on a sharp downward turn again. It’s heartbreaking to hear her cry and wail. I want to be there to hold her hand and give her a hug, but she is far away…and the next visit isn’t for another 10 days. And if I was with her, there is no guarantee she would accept the hug…sometimes she doesn’t like to be touched. I always ask if it would be helpful before I hug her or take her hand.

Nothing is right in her world today. School. Her roommate. Her memories. Homesickness.

It is one of those days that when you look her, you can see things are not good in her head. Over the phone, I hear it in her voice.

Her mental state overpowers everything, every thought. I don’t know how else to explain it. It overpowers? overrides? overwhelms? Her unsettled mental state fills her with sadness, anger and fear…and it overflows into her actions.

On days like this, I feel very sad for her and helpless. It’s heartbreaking, just heartbreaking.

About the same.

When I was in sixth grade we moved across town to the house where my parents still live. I went from a neighborhood with 20+ kids, to one with only a few, most of them younger.  I went from a school where I knew everyone, to a school with only strangers.

Fortunately, there was a girl down the street, in my grade, who became my friend. We spent a lot of time together, listening to LPs or 8tracks, stalking boys we liked , playing marathon games of Monopoly,  and walking home from school.  When summer plans took us different directions, we wrote  a lot of letters.

My parents never asked me where I was going when I went out with this friend, because we had fun, but we never got in trouble.  (We accepted as fact that we would get caught if we did something we weren’t supposed to be doing.)

My friend has a wonderful sense of humor (translation: she gets my jokes and likes puns) and while we don’t see each other often, due to distance, we do occasionally send each other a bad joke or pun.  Sometimes I run across a pun so bad (or good, depending on your perspective) that I have to send it to her. Our punny interactions always make me think about happy  times long ago.

About the same.

For instance, I remember the two of us visiting my grandmother.  Grandma was getting a little forgetful,  and when Grandma asked how my friend’s little dachshund was doing (we already had told Grandma that the dog had passed away) my friend answered without hesitation, “about the same.”  It was kind, true, horrifying and funny – all at the same time.

I thought about that visit the other day. A detour took me by my grandmother’s house…and my friend’s visit is the thought that popped into my head…About the same.

Beethoven’s Seventh

Since I always played classical music in the nursery for my son, daughter, and foster babies, I listened to a lot of it myself over the baby monitor. Often I played a cd, sometimes I turned on the local classical station. It was background noise, soothing and I never paid it much attention.

One night, having fallen asleep on the couch, I woke to the most amazing melody/harmony. It drew me in and woke me up. I didn’t recognize it and the radio announcer, of course, did not say what it was. Back then, there was no digital read-out on the radio to tell you what was playing.

A few weeks later, driving with the same baby in the car, I heard it again.  This recording was different, piano only, but I recognized that the music was the same.  I pulled over and listened closely until I heard the announcer say it was a transcription for piano of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony.

The music makes me cry every time I hear it, that second movement!

Recently, I was able to hear it performed twice – by the Akron Symphony and the Cleveland Orchestra. Both times the tickets were given to me by people who did not know how much I loved it.  I can’t describe the feeling I have when I hear it….it overwhelms me.

There are other songs that transport me back to a particular place and time in my mind, songs that bring to mind an experience or feeling (like dancing with my friend to Turn the Page), but this music, Beethoven’s Seventh, stands alone in touching my soul.

Is he dead?

I watch a lot of old movies and tv shows. My children watched them with me. They never seemed to care that they were in black and white.  Maybe they thought the world used to be less colorful.

It was certainly more appropriate for children!  Old shows like McHale’s Navy, Burns and Allen, The Munsters, even the Three Stooges – were all acceptable for little eyes and ears.

Sometimes my daughter would ask, “Did you watch that when you were little?” When I answered, “Yes,” she would scowl and ask “Is he dead?”

Now, sometimes the answer would be, “No, but he is old now like Gampy,” and she would be very satisfied with that.  But when the answer was, “Yes, he is dead,” she would  shake her head and say, “I knew it.”  I don’t know  how she “knew it,” but it clearly was important to her , because she always asked.  If I didn’t know the answer, I had to google it so she could be certain.

The actor being alive or dead didn’t determine whether we watched the show or interfere with her enjoyment of the show. It was just a fact she needed to know.

It’s funny, the things my daughter  focuses on.  Sometimes the things give me an insight into her thought processes. Other things, like this dead-or-alive information,  leave me wondering.



Blizzard of 78

I was sitting in my recliner, looking out at the heavy snow falling today. It made me think of another snowstorm long ago. It made me think about how things have changed….how I have changed.

I had just started my first full-time job and no one had my phone number to call and tell me not to show up for work…during a blizzard. I went; I was carpooling with my dad back then because we both worked downtown. It was the legendary (in our area ) Blizzard of 78.  My dad and I both went to work in my 1967 Buick.  We both came home early together.

I have to say, it would have never occurred to 19-year-old me NOT to show up for work.  Now, as an older adult, you do not have to ask me twice if I want to take a snow day – whether I get paid for it or not.  It doesn’t have to be particularly dangerous – just really snowy or really cold – for me to call and tell my boss “I’m not coming.”

It isn’t that I have become less reliable as an employee, it’s just that I’ve become more sensible as a person. I have a better balance in my life.  My job is how I get money to live. It isn’t a career. It isn’t my life. It’s just a living.

Now, I really like my job – I am a church secretary and bookkeeper – but I am confident  could find another…and I would like that one, too. I feel a freedom regarding my job, or changing jobs,  and regarding life in general, that I did not feel as a younger person. That is a positive change.

When forecasters call for the mother-of -all-snowstorms to come down on us, I think back to the Blizzard of 78 and think – “I’ve seen worse.” The creative terms they use to describe the storms do a disservice to the public – hysteria reigns. This is a big change from 1978.   Because the weather is delivered in such a sensational way, because the the computer generated models are taken as gospel, people are fearful.  When the storm doesn’t develop as predicted, we and venture out during the next storm, when we shouldn’t.  This is a negative change.

So, if I’m not keen of forecasts, how do I know when to stay home?  I take my dogs out. If I have to push them out the back door due to the extreme cold; if the gate or garage door is frozen shut, if the snow is drifted up to my knees…I stay home.  Yup, common sense.





Mrs. G.

Thinking about the Lunch Bunch made me think about a woman that passed away before the group was formed. Mrs. G.

Mrs. G. attended our church for some time. She was very lovely; beautiful  on the outside, as well as gracious and kind, generous and strong. If I had to describe her in just one word, it would be ‘class.’

I could never understand how her husband could have left her and their children. I know it is not possible that his new, younger love interest was more beautiful than Mrs. G.

I knew Mrs. G. long before I was divorced myself. I heard her advice (Hold on loosely) and saw the grace with which she conducted herself. I saw the respect that her children and others offered her.

She was very vocal about what was, and wasn’t helpful, after a divorce. Some people mean well, but don’t know what to do or say. (Sadly, others just don’t mean well.) Because she shared these experiences in her gracious way, people paid attention. And when I got divorced, I avoided a lot of the difficulties she experienced. She paved the way for me and for others….it made it better, easier for us, and I am very grateful.

She went out of her way to befriend women who were attending church alone, widowed or divorced….and those ladies, in turn, befriended others. She was the “Lunch Bunch” before it existed.

Mrs. G. was an avid golfer, well into her 80’s. Very fit and fashionable. She passed away after a very brief and unexpected illness. Years after her passing, when I have to deal with life and divorce issues, I still ask myself, ‘What would Mrs. G. do?”

Lunch Bunch

I was approached by a woman at church about starting a group for unattached (single, widowed or divorced – or women who just come out to church alone) ladies – so that they could get to know each other. She was fairly new and wanted to meet other women. Women who might have interests similar to her own.

Now, I work at the church. I “know” everyone. I was NOT looking to expand my social circle. But I agreed to facilitate a get-together.

The woman who came up with the idea did not stay around to see her brain-child succeed. But I am so glad she came up with the idea! I have gotten to know the most interesting, strongest, most caring group of women you could imagine.

We are the Lunch Bunch – I was hoping for an alliterative name, but settled for rhyming instead.

We range from 50 – late 80’s. Two (including me) are divorced, one is single (and still hopeful) and the others, about six of them, are widowed. The widows are remarkable in their compassion for each other; in the quiet strength, and mental toughness, that they had to draw upon as caregivers when their husbands were sick.

I don’t want you to think that this is a humorless, grief support group. Just the opposite. While we do offer each other support, we get together just to laugh, eat and learn about each other’s lives. I have made some good friends. And I have to admit that, before Lunch Bunch, I didn’t “know” these ladies at all!