I’m Not Dead Yet, Janet Survives the Pandemic

     “I can see everything except what I’m looking at” is a pretty good description of the effects of macular degeneration.  I once took a small paper plate and put it in line with the focal point of  my vision to see what was left of my vision without moving my eyes.  Try it.  Many activities become impossible or difficult, driving, reading, pushing buttons on phones and screens, identifying faces to name a few.

    One problem was retrieving phone messages on her cell phone and charging her cell phone.  The cell phone has voice commands but first one has to push the proper button.  This became a major frustration for Janet and her children and twelve grandchildren who keep in touch with her regularly.  

    The solution came in the form of a land line in addition to the cell phone.    That left the problem of receiving messages.  It is important to be able to leave loving messages to listen and re-listen when someone special has called.  

    I bought the simplest answering machine I could find to plug into the land line.  Unfortunately,  it still contained numerous buttons.  Also, it could fall off the desk.  I taped it securely to the desk and covered all of the buttons, except the one to push to receive messages.  We recorded a greeting after numerous tries, a cheerful, “Hello, this is Janet, leave a message.” 

    During the Pandemic, I was granted daily access to my mother, a blessing that few relatives of those living in group settings had.  I was designated a caregiver, doing showers, walks and meds.  The first few months were particularly hard because residents could not congregate with each other for activities.  This made the telephone vital for human contact.

   About a week after setting up the greeting my sister called, alarmed by Mom’s phone greeting.  I called while she was out of her room.  When the greeting came on I heard,  “Hello, this is Janet, I’m stiiiillll aliiiiive,” in a voice alarmingly, sounding just barely alive.  How did she do that?  I still have no idea.  I used my phone so Mom could listen to her greeting.  After a good laugh, we recorded another greeting.   Mom didn’t know how or when she made the new greeting but it was surely worthy of pandemic times.

    Restrictions are relaxing, meals are in the dining room. Residents gather for activities.  Recently, weather permitted a visit from great-grandchildren outside with a violin concert by Greta.

 All residents are vaccinated and life is returning to normal.  It was a difficult year for many  and I attended just a couple of the “pity parties” as mom would call them.  Then, like a passing storm, her sunny disposition would return.  She is a joy to me, her fellow residents and staff.  So, if you’re not dead yet, be kind and enjoy the day. (Advise from a life well lived)

Confessions of a Never Trumper

I do not know when I first became aware of Donald Trump, possibly in the 90’s in glitzy photos, always with some “Trump brand” object large or small, building, plane, tie, wine, steak.  It could have been one of his divorces or affairs or when he took a full page add condemning the Central Park Five or his bankrupt Casino.  Maybe I was flipping through the channels and saw him on his TV show the Apprentice.  In every incident the same feeling came to me…. What an arrogant self-absorbed con-man/sleezeball.

When he started talking about running for President in the 90’s, I chuckled at the absurdity that anyone would fall for this egomaniac.  He changed his party affiliation from Republican to Independent to Democrat and back to Republican.  His “Birther Movement” was political genius that finally found traction over a large swath of angry voters in American.  From there he fed the flames on immigration, job stagnation and rust belt and coal country rot.  He fed the narrative of Christian Conservatives that they were the real victims of Liberalism.  Spreading fear of having guns confiscated, immigrant invasion, multiculterism and US global involvement.  He embraced Right to Life, I believe, because he saw the importance to Evangelicals and Catholics not because of any moral imperative.  

I began to wonder what my father, a Union man and factory worker would think or say about Donald Trump.  In my mind, he wouldn’t have liked him.  He had a well-developed bull-shit-o meter.  He was also a dyed in the wool Democrat.  He stood on the principles of honesty and his word was his contract, not to be broken.  He held us to the same high standards and was stingy with praise.  Dad would never tell somebody what he or she wanted to hear just to get what he wanted.  He was generous with his money even though we didn’t have a lot.  I never wondered if he loved us even though he rarely said it.  He was everything Trump is not.

When he famously came down the escalator and announced his bid to a mostly paid crowd, I was amused.  There was such a strong field of Republican candidates, I thought, this shouldn’t last long.  But it did, excruciatingly.  I had my favorites in the crowd.  I wanted to feel good, no matter who was elected.  I was not a fan of Hillary.  She had her faults.  Bernie’s Socialist agenda was popular with a minority.  One by one, the Republican candidates lost ground to Trump and his puffery, The Republican Convention rolled around and crowned him king.  His face glowed like the Harvest Moon with a wisp of cloud passing over the top.   I was suspicious when the Republican Platform on Ukraine and  Russia was changed at Trump’s request, less support for Ukraine and less criticism of Russia for invading Crimea was hard to understand, especially from Republicans.  It was odd and dark.  Then there was Trump asking Russia to go after Hillary and the Democrats and crowing about WikiLeaks.  

Still, no one believed he could win, including Trump himself.  

 

Visit: Current Events on Big River

St. Clair to Courtright, Ontario Ferry  1950's

  

  My mother and my aunt cooked up this great adventure for my cousins and me.  Our grandfather, a Chief Engineer, was on one of his last trips on the Great Lakes with the Interlake Steamship Company.  On a warm sunny day, Grandpa's boat would be heading up river and passing our home town, St. Clair, MI.  The plan was for my cousins and siblings to accompany my grandmother who would board the freighter from Marilyn M out in the channel of the St. Clair River just as the freighter passed St. Clair.  It was the custom that the Captain and the First Engineer could have visitors on several trips.  You'd think they'd board while the ship was docked, but no, it happened in the middle of the River and we would bear witness. 

The Marilyn M was a working ferry but her captain had accommodated the Great Lakes captains and Chief Engineers through many summers of this tricky maneuver.  The anticipation of waiting in the park was almost unbearable but soon we saw Grandpa’s freighter rounding the bend,  black smokestack with orange stripe puffing smoke from the engine room.   Shouting and cheering, we scampered to the ferry dock to climb aboard the Marilyn M.

 With the auto  tow barge detached, we motored into the current. The river smells, blue water and roaring engine adding to the anticipation as our hair caught the breeze and spray.   The SS Frank Purnell was headed up river as we went down with the current to meet our grandfather.  The Ferry boat made a wide 180 turn bouncing off the wake of the Great Lakes Steamship vessel.  Gunning the engines, the Marilyn M came along the huge sidewall of the freighter like a newborn calf swimming beside a behemoth mother whale.  All we could see was rusty colored metal.  For a moment it seemed as if we stood still as the Marilyn M matched the speed of Grandpa’s freighter. I noticed the water below rushing through the several foot gap between the Marilyn M and the Freighter in a wild torrent erasing the illusion of stillness. A ladder appeared hanging down the side of the ship.  First spit-shined shoes appeared, then pant legs and then Grandpa in full dress uniform for the occasion.  To me, he was a Dwight Eisenhower look alike.  His cheer spread around as he hugged and kissed my cousins, siblings and me.  We were all beaming basking in the thrill of this unusual moment in time.  The Marilyn M had to return to service.  No time to dally.    Kisses goodbye and then as if in a nonsensical dream, I watched as first my grandfather and then my grandmother in a dress disappeared up the side of a moving freighter on a ladder.  The Marilyn M pealed away and quiet revelry filled the passenger space behind the captain. Bouncing our way through the freighter’s wake, we returned to the dock. The whole experience probably took only 15 minutes but is branded indelibly in my memory.  When I asked my sister and cousin about their memories of the event, my sister,  said she was mortified to see Grandma’s underwear as she ascended the ladder.  Cousin Joe says he was terrified Grandma would fall.  

  Years later, in my twenties when dear Grandpa Bell died, I imagined a ladder coming down from the clouds and a voice saying, “Come on board, Chester, a life well lived!”

 

A Wrinkle in Time: This is how I got mine.

Wrinkles in Time 

Useless worrying about turning 40

Now at 67 I wondered why,

I should have loved being 40. 

Wrinkles, women worry about wrinkles more than getting old.

Threshold

Paused this morning, old paint worn to smooth, dirty graying wood below my feet, chipped along the edges and gouged along the surface.   Only a few seconds ticked by.  With a time warped consciousness a life time entered my childhood home.   This door opened and closed to the first day of school, graduations, boy friends, husband, children and grandchildren.  Through the door passed joy and sadness, hopes and fears, love and tenderness, anger and irritation, ignorance and wisdom.   Kissing my 90 year old mother goodbye,  one more time, I step through the threshold of this house, aware now, that each moment is its own threshold.
 

Threshold:  1) Doorway, entrance, portal 2) Point of entry, beginning 3) A limit below which a stimulus causes no reaction

On Thin Ice

 On Thin Ice

    On a clear, cold morning with hoar frost magically coating the world in crystals, the girls gave knowing glances to each other as they finished bowls of oatmeal.  No need for communicating plans, it was understood as the sun rose on the transformed landscape.  Coat, mittens, hats and the temporarily dry galoshes were hurriedly donned.  The back door smacked loudly as the girls jumped off the porch, their breath in puffs like small steam engines.  First stop was to pick up the girls' next door neighbor and friend. Sing song shout at the front door brought her always-suspicious mother.  The trio smiled angelically. Ready in a flash she whizzed by her mother and out the door, knowing instinctively the destination.  Mothers, if asked, would not approve.  Out-to-play was all the information required.

      The hard freeze made the ground crunch as the girls followed the well-worn path to their three ponds in the in the woods. The first pond was called the First Pond, the closest and most visited.  In the spring, before the mosquitoes formed a barricade and then again in the fall as cooler temperatures beat the pests back, the woods was a magical kingdom where they reign.

Standing beside the clear frozen pond, the edges were tested for weight bearing capacity with tentative shuffles and then stomps and pokes with a stick.  Today it is perfect.  Delighted smiles spread across their individual faces.  The smallest sister is to be the first to traverse the open pond.  Overjoyed and needing no encouragement, off she goes sliding and moving quickly to the cheers of those on the bank. From the squeaking and undulation of the ice as she crossed, the girls know today they have been given a gift of nature, RUBBER ICE!

     One at a time, to squeals of laughter, each girl takes her turn as the ice undulates and sounds its crackling warnings.  Hearts race as each child intensely experiences the unity of hope and fear.  Back and forth the girls fly, speed and sliding agility being supremely important as they witness the solid waving under foot that give rubber ice its name.   Take too much time in one spot and the weight will break a hole.  There comes a time when the laws of physics and nature ate tested to their limits.  A foot breaks through and plunges into the cold water flooding a golash quickly followed by the other. With both boots flooded and sinking down to the mucky bottom, each in those brief seconds experience the last icy thrill of adventure, grateful that the First Pond is only knee deep. Happy and soggy footed the girls of Clinton Avenue slosh home to be greeted by their mothers.  "We got soakers," trying to explain the accidental circumstances of wet feet and pant legs.  Mother would smile knowingly as the swamp water was dumped from boots and shoes and wrung from socks.  

Baseball Season circa 1958-1962

            Within the boundaries of the fenced in yard of the neighbor boy and the ultra landscaped property of a Detroit retiree,  Mr. Brooks, lay a vacant lot.  It was mowed by "Brooksie," the name the girls called him with absolutely no affection .  To Brooksie,  the group of neighborhood boys and girls were an unruly hoard to be kept off his golf course lawn complete with sprinklers.  The TA-TA-TA-pppppppppt  sound plus the thrill of venturing into forbidden territory made for an irresistible  game of cat and mouse on a hot summer day.  The girls would make a mad dash toward the nearest sprinkler head, timing the entry into the refreshing rain drops just as they reached the edge of greenness marking the boundary of his acres of lawn.  Eventually the shrieks of joy would alert him of the trespass and waving a fist and with a crotchety angry shout, "Get off my lawn," the game was over for the time being.  
   Now, some fifty years later, I realize  Mr. Brooks gave the children of Clinton Avenue a gift, a vacant lot.  The small plot, owner in absentia,  grass clipped regularly,  was vacant, a vacuum that sucked in the imaginations of a tribe of baby boomers.  The girls and boys of Clinton Avenue gathered on neutral ground to form teams, line up wooden plank bases, make their own rules and PLAY BALL!
       The boys and girls of Clinton Avenue would gather on this green expanse and choose teams.   All would be chosen, even littlest sisters and brothers.  One boy, so strong in his upper body that he could go to a handstand on a fence post, had weak and crippled legs.  He walked slowly and running was impossible.   Down on his hands and knees, he was swifter.  Shorter bases were laid down just for him.  With a powerful swing he frequently hit home runs.
       The rules of the game were frequently up for debate.  Who was the home team?  One of the two captains tossed the the bat into the air, the other grabbed it somewhere along its length.  Hand over hand,  up the bat until the last eagle claw on the wooden knob at the end was clutched.  This person decided whether they were at bat or in the field.  Politely taking turns, teams were chosen.   Not enough players?  No problem,   at bat team supply a catcher, perhaps a designated pitcher for both teams.  It didn't matter.  We did what ever it took to play ball.
          All of the neighborhood kids gathered in this space, the younger siblings, boys, and girls, all preadolescent.  In this space the children made memories of cooperation, following the rules, when to bend the rules in the interest of fairness and the friendship that bound it all together.  Conflicts arose but were resolved knowing that the alternative would end the game.  Each child got a turn at bat,  "hey batter, batter....swing!"  No umpire to call balls or strikes, each could wait for their sweet pitch.   Smaller children were given 4 strikes and the really small got to swing until the ball was hit.
     One boy from town who played little league would ride his bike out to play.  Happy and goofy this boy fit in with the children and followed our "rules."  On the Little League field his play was inconsistent,  wildly varying from heroically spectacular to embarrassingly inept.   The boys and girls of Clinton Ave.  were always happy to see him.  He basked in the idolization of the girls young brother.  When he appeared to play, he was always chosen first and could hit the ball across Clinton Ave.  However, on one memorable occasion he reenacted "Casey at the Bat."  One of the girls pitched and when he whiffed the last pitch, the sisters all cheered and hugged.  Our "professional" ball player displayed the grace and good humor we all admired and the game went on.
       To this day, I do not remember the score of a single game.  No parents or adults ever participated. What I do remember is a group of children just being kids learning about life through play.  Now I know what a blessing that is.  Belatedly, thank you to Mr. Brooks for mowing the grass.