Falling Down at the Gas Station

A week ago today, I was driving south on Hwy 84 from Lubbock holding a bag of ice against my temple with my left hand and the steering wheel with my right.  From time to time, I would steady the wheel with my right knee and reach down for a handful of Corn Nuts, my favorite stay-awake-while-driving snack.  I was bound and determined to reach my destination no matter how much blood was shed.

An hour before.

I dressed carefully and thoughtfully before hauling my luggage, hanging clothes and show-and-tell items to the car.  Yes.  This was, indeed, the perfect long-time-no-see outfit.  My Steinmart Lily Pulitzer Look Alike sweater with a Brooks Brothers crisp white shirt worn beneath - collar popped up - looked great with my pale yellow Chico's jeans.  The time I spent searching YouTube for an adorable way to tie my pink and yellow scarf was well spent.  The pearl necklace and studs added that "devil may care/preppy" touch that served as the icing on my I'm-so-happy-to-see-you-and-you-haven't-aged-a-bit-either ensemble.

I jumped in the car with a light and breezy heart.  A GIRLS' WEEKEND awaited!  After situating my phone and tuning in to my audiobook, I was off!  But first, I made the ill-fated stop at the corner gas station.  I only needed a half a tank.  More importantly, I needed a large bag of stay-awake-while-driving Corn Nuts.  I already had a large bag of Jolly Ranchers.  Sweet.  Salty.  Sweet.  Salty.  For 5 hours of highway driving.

At the gas station I hopped out of my car and popped the gas nozzle into the Altima's gas tank.  Then, I proceeded to take a giant step over the hose that separated me from the "payment method" side of the pump.  From this point, I will switch over to the conversation I had with myself within the privacy of my own mind.

Ahhhh!  The fresh morning air of Spring!  Look at that sunshine!

I think that I'll get the gas pumping and then run in to get my Corn Nuts!  I can pay for both inside!  

I am an efficiency freak.  I save steps, miles, and minutes using "strategery" that comes from a constant flow of situation analysis in my brain.  Some people cure cancer.  Some people save people from burning buildings.  I busy myself by plotting the most efficient route to travel from my house to Hobby Lobby via the post office.

Oh, wait.  It says here that I have to pay inside before pumping!  How will I know how much gas I'm going to need?  I'll have to walk all the way inside, give the attendant my card, come back to the pump, start the pump, and then go back in to get my Corn Nuts and pay.  Well now, there's got to be a better way.  Let.  Me.  See.  Oh!  I'll pay AT the pump!  Then, I'll go in and get my Corn Nuts.  Brilliant!  I won't have to go in-out-in-out!  Just in-out!

Turning back towards my car, I commenced to taking another giant step over the knee high gas hose.  One foot over.  Then, it happened.  My left foot didn't quite make the leap.  The toe of my left Skecher caught on the hose that was dangling like a knee high jump rope.  I tried to steady myself by hopping on my right foot to regain my balance.

Yikes!  I'm falling!  I NEVER fall down!  This must be what it feels like to be Mother.  She's 87!  I'm only 56!  I'm too young to start having falls!  Quick, grab the side of the car and try to save yourself! 

I began to flail my arms in the general direction of the car.

This is really happening!  I'm hopping and flailing and STILL FALLING!  This is so embarrassing!  I wonder who's driving by right now.  Dang this flashy Steinmart Lily Pulitzer Look Alike sweater!  I'm sure that every woman driving by is admiring my sweater and laughing at my hopping and flailing.  WHOOOOOOOOOOOA!  I'm going down!  OOOOOOH NOOOOOO!

I toppled to the pavement landing first on my left knee, then on my left arm and finally came to rest by bonking my head on the gas pump cement platform.

 Oh no!  Oh no!  I hit my head!  Am I seeing double?  [took a quick glance at the bottom of my car]  Oh, good!  There's just one of everything.  Quick, get up!  Get up!!  People are watching!  OK.  Now, I'm standing.  Nothing seems to be broken.  Oh, man!  I got my pale yellow Chico's jeans all dirty.  I wonder how my head looks.  I wonder if there's a knot.  [felt around on my forehead]  Feels OK, but oh, no!  My hand is covered with blood!  Quick get in the car!  Get in the car!  Don't cause a time-wasting ruckus!  Grab a Kleenex to stop the bleeding!

I sat in the car assessing the situation as tears began to stream down my face.

I've looked forward to this Girls' Weekend for so long!  Now, I can't go!  I'm probably going to need stitches.  I'm going to need stitches AND a CT scan.  If the attendant sees me sitting here with blood running down my face, he's going to have to make me fill out some corporate documents explaining how I'm not tall enough to leap over a knee high gas hose.  What if he's duty-bound to call 911?  

I quickly started the car and eased towards home holding a Kleenex against the gash on my forehead.

Should I drive straight to the ER?  I may be bleeding internally!!  Nah!  I'd have to wait for hours.  I wonder if my doctor does stitches in his office.  Calm down, Carolyn!!  Just go home and survey the damage.

I began to cry in earnest.  My ugly cry.  My woe-is-me cry.  I had left the house not 10 minutes before heading out of town towards a fun-filled weekend.  Now I was pulling back into my garage and closing the door quickly so that no neighbor would see my war wounds.

Once inside, I studied the gash on my forehead with a magnifying mirror and  then glanced up at the bathroom mirror and saw that my crisp, white collar was covered with blood.  Oh, no!  There were drops of blood on my Steinmart Lily Pulitzer Look Alike sweater!  My tears flowed faster, and I began to hiccup.  Then, I looked down and saw that there was a patch of blood seeping through the knee of my jeans.  I began to wail.

I'm covered in blood, AND my I'm-so-happy-to-see-you-and-you-haven't-aged-a-bit-either ensemble had been compromised!  My absolute most darling casual clothes are hanging in the car!  

I had outfits for the 2 days we were to spend in Granberry accompanied by some contingency clothing.  I couldn't dip into those clothes.  That would have totally disrupted my weekend apparel plan.  I hurried into my closet and came up with a suitable Plan B. Thirty minutes later, I had dried my tears, blown my nose, fixed my makeup and washed the blood out of my hair.

Back on the road, I checked my forehead in the vanity mirror on the visor of my car.  My eyes sprung open wide with terror.  The knot that had formed on my temple had shrunk. But, the veins in my forehead were bulging out blue and ropy like the top of an old woman's hand.

I'm having a stroke!  There's a clot!!  I'm going to black out and swerve into oncoming traffic!

I pulled off of the road and called one of my besties who also happens to be my doctor's wife.  She talked me through a roadside "neuro exam" which greatly resembles a roadside sobriety test.  I only thought that my Steinmart Lily Pulitzer Look Alike sweater called attention to my plight.  No, standing on one foot with my eyes closed and my arms held out from my sides all alone on Hwy 84 - THAT will get passersby looking.  With Lisa on speaker phone, it totally looked like I was also having a nice chat with myself.  

Soon, sweet Lisa helped me calm down.  "You sound pretty lucid, and you're standing on one foot OK.  Put some ice on it.  I'll bet you'll be fine."

So, I stopped at the next convenience store and explained to the clerk that I had fallen down at a gas station just a while ago and I needed some ice for my head.  Without a word, she gathered up a plastic sack, held it under the ice dispenser on the coke machine until it had just enough ice in it and handed the sack back to me.  "Have a good day,"  she said.  "I'm trying.  I'm really, really trying," I said.

The weekend was a blast!  Sorority sisters with fun stories, shopping, games, and sweet memories.  They made me forget all about the episode that I now refer to as "Falling Down at the Gas Station."  I still haven't told my 87 year old mother, Meems, about my fall.  She would definitely call 911 on my behalf.  With her sweet little voice she would remind me of the time that she fell down, bumped her head, and had to have brain surgery.  Apparently, she did not pass the "roadside neuro exam."

Nekked Bunny Hop

A note to my sons:  This post contains some suggested nudity that you will not be able to "unsee."  However, just remember what little Bryce said all those years ago.  "Well, duh, Reed.  Jonathan's adopted!  They've [Mom and Dad] have only mated twice."  Think on that and clear your minds of any haunting images of Nekked Hoppin' because it has never happened.  Ever.

The tradition of the Nekked Bunny Hop began in the year 1980.  It actually followed another tradition Alan likes to call the Nekked Christmas Tree Dance.  As we carefully placed our small collection of newlywed Christmas ornaments on our newlywed Christmas tree, he asked me when I was going to do the Nekked Christmas Tree Dance.  We had been married about 2 weeks at the time.  His suggestion was met with my first marital eye roll and "yeah, right."

A few months later the breezes warmed signaling the coming of Spring and the Easter season.  "Since I missed your Nekked Christmas Tree Dance, why don't you go ahead and do your Nekked Bunny Hop?" Alan grinned.  Again, his request was met with eye rolls.  Yes.  I was a married woman.  But, I was not THAT kind of girl.  Seriously, Al.  What were you thinking?

Thirty three years later like clockwork, the brightness of Spring and greening of the trees beckoned Alan to call for the Nekked Bunny Hop.  Over time, my negative responses have evolved.  "Oh, I only do that when Easter falls on a Thursday."  "I did it yesterday.  I guess you missed it."  "You go first."  He has never taken me up on the whole "go first" proposition.

A couple of nights ago - on a "school night" - I padded into our bedroom at about 10PM and glanced at early-to-rise Al who was being lulled to sleep by some stupid something on the Cartoon Channel.  That's what happens every night.  At about 9:00, he gets up from his chair in the living room, yawns, stretches and calls it a day.  Off he goes to our soft bed and the comfort of stupid cartoons while I secretly catch up on some of my recorded Real Housewife...er...uh...documentaries.

As I gazed at my drowsy precious man, I decided to try a litte experiment.  I padded into our bathroom and ever-so-quietly closed the French doors.  After changing into my decrepit pink PJ bottoms and tired pink "I [heart] NYC" t-shirt, I began to softly sing the Bunny Hop melody..."La ta da ta dadda da da da..."  Gaining momentum, I sang louder and in a more sultry voice.  [I must confess.  I first typed s-l-u-t-r-y.  Thank you, spell check.]  Soon, I was belting it out.  "Uhhhhh...put your right foot forward!  Puh-da-da!  Put your left foot out!  Do the Bunny Hop!  Yeah!  HOP!  HOP!  HOP!"

Just as I had hypothesized, the French doors opened slowly, carefully, quietly and Alan's little head peeked into the bathroom.  From the clutches of slumber to the curiosity of a newlywed, he had bounded out of bed.

"Oops!!  You just missed it!  Maybe next year!  Sorry 'bout that!" I teased.  

"Yeah, right," he replied rolling his eyes as he headed back to his warm sleepy cocoon.

I was pretty pleased with myself.  Yep.  Pretty pleased.  But, I wonder.  If I had been doing the Nekked Bunny Hop, would I have forever ruined Alan's dream of the dance? Like Jerry Seinfeld says.  There are just some things you do NOT want to see a naked person doing  - like coughing.  Or mopping.  Or Nekked Bunny Hopping.  Flop!  Flop!  Flop! 

The Confused Leading the Confused-er

Thursday morning dawned bright and crisp and as I stretched out my sleepy limbs, I felt a tingle of excitement.  It was Cut 'n' Color Day!!!  I sprang out of bed almost singing.  Cut 'n' Color Day meant that I didn't have to wash or style my hair before going out in the world - a perk of the 9AM appointment.  I got all cozy in my special chair in my bedroom and took my sweet time applying makeup while watching some old movie.  The process was even more exciting because I have been experimenting with a bit of green eye shadow and I'm working on the how-much-is-not-too-much part.  Unhurried makeup application coupled with  a Turner Classic Movie creates a lazy enjoyable simple pleasure.  A perfect start to my day.

Makeup perfected.  Appropriately inconspicuous green eye shadow applied.  Cute clothes on.  I grabbed my Kindle and hopped into the car eager for my appointment with Scot (with one T) at the Bijou.  The Bijou is an sort of artsy salon that employs both male and female stylists - all of which/whom (you choose) are clad in boho cool attire.  You won't see a lot of unnecessary bling or caked on makeup at this salon.  No, sir.  It's a warm uptown cocoon with softs strains of Sirius Coffee House and polite offers of a soft drink or coffee as you settle into a peaceful respite of interesting, quite conversation and Kindle reading.

An hour and a half later feeling sassy with my soft, shiny hair lilting in the breezes of Spring, I had an hour to kill before my next activity which I will explain in due time.  I decided to gift myself some browsing at Tuesday Morning, but on the way another store caught my eye.  I had never ventured into the DAV Thrift store downtown because on the surface it looks like a hot mess of junk.  "Why not!" I asked myself feeling winsome and a tad bit adventurous.  The hour passed quickly as I combed through old office supplies, books, vintage post cards and record albums.  I ended up with quite a little pile of treasures that inspired me to revisit my hobby of creating mail art.

Sassy hair!  Little treasures!!  Next stop - The Annual Mother-Daughter Mammogram followed by lunch at Cracker Barrel - home of the all day breakfast-palloza.  Meems was sitting in the waiting area tightly clutching her backpack-purse on her lap when I arrived.  She was sporting her perennial French beret - the choice of the day was a pretty teal that brings out the blue in her eyes.  She was ready and waiting because the little transportation bus from Raider Ranch generally delivers her to appointments about 30 minutes before a normal person could even consider himself early.  Over the next 45 minutes, we were both mammogrammed and had worked up a fine appetite for the celebratory "Yowza! 365 Days Until We Have To Do THAT Again!" Luncheon.

I can order Meems' lunch at Cracker Barrel without even opening the menu.  "She'll have the Oldtimer - eggs over easy, toast instead of biscuits, extra little things of jelly, bacon, hash browns - not the casserole hash browns just the regular ones - coffee, and water." Oh, my, Miss Meems loves her some Oldtimer Breakfast platters at 1:00 in the afternoon.  It takes her about an hour, but she cleans her plate down to the last drop of runny egg yolk.

After all of the mammogramming and breakfasting, Meems was ready for her afternoon "resting of the eyes."  "I'm not asleep.  I'm resting my eyes."  [She had already rested them a bit in the waiting room of Lubbock Radiology that morning.]  I buckled her in, and off we went to Raider Ranch.

At last, I come to the Confused Leading the Confused-er chapter of this tale.  One big perk of Mom's apartment at Raider Ranch is that being on the ground floor makes for easy pickup and drop off at her little porch gate.  I helped her out of the car and up on the sidewalk, then I strode ahead to her porch door to unlock it.  I unlocked the deadbolt as usual.  The door did not open.  Hmmm.  Maybe she locked the door knob lock.  Yep.  It was locked.  I unlocked it, and still no open door.  Then, a startling realization opened my eyes wide.  When I pick Mom up from her apartment porch, we only lock the deadbolt.  There is a second deadbolt that unlocks only from the INSIDE.

Me:  "Uh....That's weird.  Someone has locked the inside deadbolt.  That means that someone has been in your apartment.  Hmm."

Meems [ever so softly]:  "I don't know who it could have been because I'm the only one who has a key - not even the maids or maintenance people have keys."

Me [taking charge]:  "Well, someone has been in there!  Why they locked the inside deadbolt makes the situation even more mysterious!"

Leaving Meems on the porch I walked around to the side door and let myself in using her electronic key fob thingy.  In the hall, I saw the housekeepers just outside her door ready to knock.

Me [posing a trick question]:  "Did you guys just clean Helen's apartment?"

They:  "No.  We can't get in because we don't have a key."

Me [feeling like they had just passed my interrogation}:  "Oooh, I see."

I opened the door and strode across the living room to open the inside lock so that Meems could enter her sanctuary.  I quickly did an visual assessment of her belongings.  TVs?  Check!  iPod that she can't remember how to use?  Check!  Extra purses piled on the chair?  Check!

Me:  "Well, it looks like nothing has been tampered with, but I'm going to get to the bottom of this because this flat out gives me the creeps."

Meems  [ever so softly]:  "OK."

After hugs and kisses, I drove from her apartment door around to the front entrance to the building.  I was going to storm the gates, find the executive director, and solve this mysterious non-crime.

Marching from my car across the parking lot, I glanced up at the front door and stopped dead in my tracks.  Well, duh.  It came to me in a flash of exposed ignorance.  I hadn't picked Meems up for the Mother-Daughter Mammogram.  Nope.  She had toddled down the hall to the front door of the complex and hopped on the previously scheduled Raider Ranch transportation bus.  The back door hadn't been unlocked at all that morning.

I had to laugh at myself.  Then, I had to call Meems to confess my confusion.

Meems [ever so softly]:  "So, how did my deadbolt get locked?"

Me [getting tickled]:  "It was never unlocked.  Remember walking down to the lobby and waiting for the Raider Ranch bus."

Meems [ever so softly]:  "Oh, yeah." [pause]  "So, no one's been in my apartment?"

Me:  "No.  Not a soul."

Meems [ever so softly]:  "Are you sure?"

I had to quickly end the conversation before her confusion did a number on me and I ended up pounding my fist on the executive director's door screaming "I WILL FIND THE PERPETRATOR!"

I drove out of the Raider Ranch compound shaking my head.  I had gone and confused the confused-er.  My bad.  At least I did it with shiny, sassy hair and a small sack of thrift store treasures.

But, Wait! There's More. A Cave Update

I recently reported about my son's adventure in a cave in Austin, Texas.  His adventure has gleaned more comments on my Facebook page than any of my status updates ever.

I spent some time with Bryce and Reed in Waco this weekend.  When I told Bryce about the infamy of the cave opening, he told me a few more disturbing details of the trip.

The steel "trap door" of the cave is kept locked at all times.  Nearby the cave entry there is a coded lock box in which the key is kept.  Once the trap door has been unlocked, the key is deposited back in the lock box.  Down in the cave there is another key.  Upon entering the cave, the spelunker is supposed to lock the door from the INSIDE so that no curious or mischievous passersby can slip down into the oblivion of subterranean darkness.

When I heard about the locking of the cave door from the inside, my heart began to race even though my still-living child stood safely before me.  

Me:  "What if someone lost the key down in the cave?!"  [My heart is palpitating now as I share this disturbing information with you.]  

Child:  "There's this thing that you hang it on, so that wouldn't happen."  

Me:  "But, it COULD HAPPEN!  What if someone absentmindedly slipped it into a pocket and it fell through a hole in the pocket somewhere deep in the cave where only Gollum can find it?!"  

Child:  "I guess you'd never get out of the cave."

I may need to pop some baby aspirin and Pepto Bismol tablets in my mouth before continuing.

Most of the time Bryce was on his hands and knees in the cave except for a few places that he wriggled through like a snake on his belly.  Once such wriggle was through a sort of tube-like tunnel that had to be entered hands-above-head-sans-backpack-and-helmet (ie, no headlamp.  ie, total and complete darkness).  This little tube was called the Birth Canal.  Bryce's professor pulled him out when he was close enough to reach her hands that were awaiting his "birth."  

The group gathered in a cave "room" that "you could almost stand up in" for lunch.  "What did you pack for lunch, Bryce?"  "Some Poptarts and water."  Again, my heart pounded with thoughts of my child starving to death in a cave while a certain misplaced key was being searched for in blinding darkness.  "You didn't take emergency food and water?!"  Wasn't that on the spelunking pretest?!  

        3.  What does a spelunker take down into a cave to assure survival?

             A.  10 military MREs and 10 gallons of water

             B.  a change of clothing

             C.  some Poptarts and water

Apparently, my child missed #3 on the pretest.  Hopefully, he received a bit of extra credit for not perishing in the cave.

At the end of the trek, the professor paired the students up and sent them in timed intervals to find their way back to the opening of the cave.  [Oh, LORD!  I think that this is the BIG ONE!  You're a-comin' to take me home right now!]  

"It was kinda funny because me and my partner (again with the grammar) wandered into this room where several other people ended up.  The professor had to actually go find a couple of people."

I must end here.  My blood pressure is so high I can hear my heart beating in my temples. Alas, the child is alive.  Like I said in the "Don't Ask.  Don't Tell." post, sometimes it's best not to know things until they have already been survived.

If you are into vicarious-fear-of-being-trapped-in-the-bowels-of-the-earth, read these descriptions of caves in the Austin area.  Bryce's Whirlpool Cave experience is rated "Beginner."  I have now added "depths" to my list of phobias alongside "heights."

Bryce sent me this picture after his mountain biking class last week:

Thanks for sharing, Bryce.  I just hope that you survive your classes this semester so that you can graduate in May.

Clarification

I feel that I should clarify that my mom doesn't have Alzheimer's.  She is just getting more and more forgetful and repetitive.  Sometimes words slip from her vocabulary when she tries to tell a story.  "Oh...you know!  That place where they have all the stores?!"  "Mom, do you mean 'mall'?"  She is still able to get around pretty well and dresses appropriately not counting December when she wore her Santa hat that plays "Feliz Navidad" at the push of a button every night to dinner at Raider Ranch.  "Everyone LOVES my Feliz Navitot hat!!!"  She still LOVES attention.

She had a checkup last week.  Twice during the 20 minutes or so that she spent with the doctor she told him the story of a checkup she had at Scott and White in Temple years ago.  "I was really cold in my little hospital gown, so my doctor draped my coat over my shoulders.  When he got up to leave the room, I followed him.  He turned around and said, 'Don't forget to put your clothes on!!'  Ha-ha-ha-ha!"  Dr. Robertson was kind enough to react appropriately to both "tellings."

In the car going back to the Raider Ranch (her independent living facility) from the doctor's office, she asked me at least 4 times why I was taking her home instead of the Raider Ranch transportation lady.  "Mom, remember we're going to run by the bank so you can get some cash?!"  "Oh, yeah."  A few minutes later.  Same question.  Then, she asked, "Are we going to be going by the bank?"

The good news is that she is very diligent about taking all of 3 of her meds.  Yep.  She's 87 years old and only takes 3 prescribed medicines.  And, she takes really good care of herself.  She eats well, watches Dr. Oz, and takes fish oil, et al to stay in top notch condition.  Need I say more?!  She has called me daily since her checkup to remind me that she needs her premed for her upcoming dentist appointment.  These are both good signs - knowing she's about to have her teeth cleaned and that she needs a premed.

If I had to call it something, I would say that she has the beginnings of dementia.  Like my grandmother and my mother, I am sure to have it in my later years...or maybe beginning next week.  You never know.  You just never know.

My only hope is that when I begin toddling down the Road of Forgetful Repetition my sense of humor is as keen as the Meems.  The ability to laugh at oneself is truly a gift from On High.

A Beautiful Poem about Alzheimer's

The poem below was written by a friend's daughter as an assignment for her high school English class.    According to her mother, Melanie sat down and quickly produced this poem about her grandmother who is living with Alzheimer's at the very last minute.  If this is what Melanie produces in a quick minute, she has a lifetime of powerful writing ahead of her!

The Journey of a Life Lived With Alzheimer’s

Highest of highs, lowest of lows
How it began nobody knows
The valleys are deep, and the chasms are wide
But your loved one is merely along for the ride

Disheartening it is as you step back and see
What she once held so close is but a faint memory
Her words are repeated again, and again
As she longs once more for the company of friends

She begins to cry
Though she knows not why
She cannot recall
The reason, at all

Though words become slow, and thoughts become twisted
“Just stay for a while,” is all she insisted
The presence of those whose faces she knows
Is all that it takes to make her day great

Be patient with her, as her mind draws a blank
Simply offer a smile, there’s no need to be frank

As she struggles, and struggles with all of her might
The enemy is becoming more and more real
She’s not losing this battle, but winning the fight
Pill after pill, night after night

Though her memory fades, her heart stays the same
Warm as a fire, full of desire
The sheer size of her heart puts even the brightest stars to shame

Daily, more like her I strive to be
Humble and sweet, selfless and free

Over this grave disease she reigns victorious
Her legacy forever lives on in all of us
-Melanie Bradley

i {heart} valentine's day

I love Valentine's Day!  From Valentine's breakfast to Valentine's dinner, I'm like a little girl anxiously waiting to open her homemade Valentine's box to see all of her "mail."

Alan and I usually exchange 2 cards:  a funny one and a lovey-dovey one.  I have kept every Valentine he has given me since we began dating in 1977.  Over the years, his "funny" cards have become more and more...uh...you know...suggestive.   I've sent most of them through the shredder out of respect for our sons who will someday have to sort through our "estate."   Alan thinks that if the boys found some of the "funny" cards years from now, they would be happy knowing that their parents truly, deeply, madly loved (or "loved on" as the case may be) each other.  You can go ahead and thank me now, boys.  I have purposely saved you from years of therapy. [Bryce, let's just go with the "turtle mating" theory.]

I've been collecting Valentine's candy boxes for several years.  Alan loves to order chocolates from hoity-toity stores.  The chocolates are exquisite, and the boxes are suh-weet!  The 3 red boxes in the back are all made from homemade paper or papier machet.

This was a rather unremarkable box that I turned into a keepsake.  The quote is from one of our favorite poems "I Meant to do My Work Today" by Richard LeGallienne.  I placed pearl pins over some of the places we've traveled.

These are some of my most treasured Valentines.  They are simple hearts cut from posterboard and then decorated with yarn.  They were made in Meem's art classes about 25 years ago.  I love, love, love children's art!

Oh, Friend of Mine!  You are adored!  You are worthy of unfailing, perfect love.
Happy Valentine's Day!
I love you!
cel

Psalm 36:5
Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens,
your faithfulness to the skies

It Begins

It begins.  To be truthful, it began beginning a few years ago.  Repeated stories.  Stolen Chico's traveler's pants.  Broken clocks.

The Meems is becoming more and more absent from the here and now.  

Ring Ring.

Me:  Hello!

Meems:  Someone stole my Chico's traveler's pants.  They're not where I always put them.  I always put them in the same place.

Me:  Could they have slipped down to the floor of your closet?  They're pretty slippery, you know.

Meems:  No.  I always put them in the same place.  I think that someone took them.

Me:  Hmm.  Well, before you dial 911, let me take a look the next time I'm at your place.

Meems:  OooooKAaaay.  (The OK of disbelief.)

The stolen pants were on the floor of her closet kicked underneath the bottom row of hanging clothes.

<<<<<>>>>>

A few weeks ago, Reed (youngest grandson) kindly went over to Meems' apartment to sweep her porch.  A haboob had rushed through town leaving a thick brown coating of sand across Lubbock.

From Wikipedia: A haboob (Arabic: هَبوب‎ "blasting/drafting") is a type of intense dust storm carried on an atmospheric gravity current. Haboobs occur regularly in arid regions throughout the world.

Reed knocked on Meems back door to let her know that he was there to perform a random act of grandson-kindness only to be met by her eyes peaking through the wooden blinds.  She feebly acknowledged him with a wave before the blinds snapped back into place.

Move furniture.  Move potted plants.  Sweep, sweep, sweep.  Replace furniture.  Replace potted plants.  One more sweep for good measure.

Reed again knocked on the door to let Meems know that her porch was looking pretty immaculate.  She flipped all the locks on the door and stepped out on the patio.

Meems:  It looks good.  You did a good job.

Reed (giving her a big hug and bright smile):  I accept tips, you know!

Meems:  Oh, we aren't allowed to tip!

Reed:  Oh!  Ha!  Ha!

Meems:  Ha!  Ha!

A few days later, Meems was over at my house when I asked her if Reed did a good job sweeping her porch.  Looking surprised she exclaimed, "That was REED?!  I thought that it was the maintenance man!"  A very demonstrative maintenance man at that.

<<<<<>>>>>

We were recently having dinner when something came up about birth dates.  "I was born in 1960!" Meems confidently exclaimed.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I remembered the questions the ER doctor recited just before he figured out that she had some bleeding on her brain.  "Who's the president?"  "What day of the week is it?"  "What is the year?"  "What is your name?"  When I questioned her, she knew Obama, Sunday, 2013, and Helen.  But, for how long?

<<<<<>>>>>

Those of you who traveled this path before me can totally share my angst.  I don't want to become the mother.  Mom sometimes tells people that I'm the Boss of Her.  I miss my outgoing, meticulously dressed, detail-oriented little mother.  Perhaps this is why I've found that I'm "becoming my mother."  Somebody has to do it.

From "Ta Da" to Today

Over the past week or so, I've had positive feedback from random people regarding my blog.  Positive feedback is always yearned for...validating...appreciated...  When asked, I couldn't remember how long I've been blogging, so I looked up my first blog post.  It is titled "Ta Da."  So that you don't actually have to click on the "Ta Da" link, I'll cut and paste the whole thing right here:

It took me so long to set up this blog that I now have nothing to say.  I can't figure out how to change my font colors on the titles, etc.  I clicked on "Help."  It links me to answers out there on the web.  I can't even understand most of them.  This is really fun.  07-24-2010

That's it and that's all.  I come from very humble beginnings.  Since then my fingers have flown across my keyboard spitting out letters onto blog after blog.  Sometimes I blog quite often.  Other times I have absolute-a-men-tay nothing to say.  Which is sad.  Because I love to write.

I guess I need to go hang out with Meems for about 30 minutes.  She will surely do something that will merit a good, humorous blog.

Thanks so much for your support!  I hit 50,000 pageviews about a week ago.  I'm sure that 49,000 of those pageviews can be credited to the spammers who troll cyberspace.

Don't Ask. Don't Tell.

The entrance.

This morning my phone dinged with a text message bright and early - before my eyelids had even begun to flutter open.  Grabbing my glasses, I clumsily snatched up my phone and tried to focus on the screen.  The moment I saw the picture, I knew.  Bryce, my middle son, was caving. 

 

He has been anticipating this field trip with his Outdoor Adventure class all semester.  Me, not so much.  

"Mom!  The only way into the cave is down a ladder!"

"My professor said that some of the kids in my class may not even fit through some of the tunnels we're gonna crawl through!"

"We're gonna have to rent knee pads, elbow pads and headlamps from Baylor cuz we're gonna be crawling on our hands and knees in the dark!"

One perk of having sons studying at a university that is 6 hours from home is the fact that I don't usually know about risky behaviors until after the fact - if at all.

"Me and Reed (yes.  he's about to graduate.) drove to Austin to a concert last night.  We didn't get back to our apartment until about 2:00!" works better for me than "Me and Reed are thinkin' about drivin' to the Bowl Game in San Diego.  We're gonna take turns drivin' so that we won't have to pay for a hotel."  Hmm.  Drive from Lubbock, Texas to San Diego, California without stopping.  That would definitely fall into the "Don't Tell" column.  (In case I caused your motherheart to twist and turn within your chest, take a deep breath.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  It never happened.  They went with all of the Baylor kids in the caravan of Greyhound buses.)

Then there was this...

"I had to take Reed to the ER last night 'cause he couldn't quit throwin' up.  He's OK now."  Thank goodness that episode of Baylor Brothers ended well.  I would have made myself a nervous wreck googling "college age male can't quit throwin' up."  Also, if I had been with Reed, I would have been throwing up, too.  I have a very weak stomach that is susceptible to stomach viruses - real or imagined.

Yep.  Alan and I agree that during this season of our sons' lives, ignorance is truly bliss.  I'm thinking that grad school in Albania sounds good.  That's in a whole different time zone.

I leave you with some of the comments made on my Facebook page in response to the above picture with this post - "Just got a txt from Bryce. He's exploring Whirlpool Cave today with his outdoor adventure class at Baylor. This is the entrance to the cave. Flunk. Me. Now.."

• "Does not look fun at all to me"
• "Never in a million years!!!! Well, maybe if I was hiding from a mass murderer but that's about it!!!!"
• "My heart is racing just looking at that picture!!  No way could I do that!!"
• "No way!  I'm with you!
• "Oh my."
• We can take Art Appreciation together in the spring.
• Fail me too.
• I don't even think I could fit through the opening!

See, Bryce?  It's not just me.

This just in from the spelunker! 

"Fun time!  Pretty intense!"

It's the WORD!

I'm so proud of my Baylor Chi-O college friend, Holly "Boz" Boswell Croley!  She's opened and Etsy "store" called "It's the WORD!"

I can't really think of many...perhaps any (except the one YOU sent me)...wedding gifts I received in 1979, but there is a special one that sits on my desk to this day. 

Holly hand-painted this rock for us!

I've also kept (since 1979) another gift from Holly.

My XO rock painted by "The Boz!"

Just in time for Valentine's Day, Holly has made some precious magnets and notepads.  I mean...who doesn't need some cool, uplifting notepads?!  Go to Holly's Etsy store and check out all of her creations!

Holly, here's a big YOU-GO-GIRL from me to you!  Keep on painting those rocks!  They are forever keepsakes!  Kiss-kiss-hoot-hoot!