Today we began the process of transferring the contents of the Ora Sprague Library to the B Thomas Golisano library building. Crews from the moving company were there before I arrived, sizing up the job, organizing their workflow, scoping out the entrances. They are pros at this, traveling around the country moving libraries to new buildings.
Their carts are rough hewn plywood tall boxes on wheels made to take a beating. They work together as teams, knowing who is doing what, one pair in the old building loading carts, one pair wheeling carts on and off trucks, and one pair in the new building, unloading carts. Every cart numbered, every cart targeted for sections of new shelving - a perfect plan.
Until the first rack of compact shelving began to buckle under the weight of the bound journals and listed at a crazy and dangerous angle. The shelving company was called, they will come tomorrow. But that didn't stop the crews. They continued loading journals on shelves as if nothing were amiss. I am fearful that they will have to offload all those materials to fix the shelving. Not their problem.
They have a contract with a deadline. They plan to meet it regardless of some inadequate shelving. They have to get things done in the prescribed order, there is no time to rewrite the plan. So just keep going.
Sometimes I feel like we treat life that way. Just keep going, be tough, get the job done, ignore the little problems that take time to fix. Somehow one hopes it will work out OK. And if the shelves collapse, we will deal with it then. Maybe. If it doesn't fall on our heads and kill us in the process.
Well, tomorrow we shall see.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Room Service
Finally! I found the time and energy to clean my room. Not that I haven't wanted to, but what with chasing after stuff we needed and seeing to the boys needs and getting a doctor lined up and learning the new job, dealing with such a myriad of details, by the end of the day I hadn't touched my room, nor did I have the energy left. Certain things have been priorities for me, like getting furniture replaced before Kiel leaves (I left old stuff in CT and have been slowly replacing tables, chairs, curtains etc.) and exercising while the weather is cooperative and before winter gets here (I know, its still a long way off, but if I don't start a good habit, I won't get it going later).
I know Sunday is meant as a day of rest, and honestly, I didn't start out with the intention of organizing my room. It was more like self defense. I couldn't find anything, and I needed to make sure I had taken care of everything I was supposed to take care of. So I thought I would just get the piles back in the boxes to separate like entities. But once I got started, things just went together well and before I knew it, everything was neat and orderly!
A bonus! Even Drew told me my room looked nice, in spite of the fact that I get to put household things like suitcases and Christmas decorations in my space. Amazing what one new storage unit and doing laundry can do for you. And it turned out to be more restful sleeping with things organized. Who knew?
I know Sunday is meant as a day of rest, and honestly, I didn't start out with the intention of organizing my room. It was more like self defense. I couldn't find anything, and I needed to make sure I had taken care of everything I was supposed to take care of. So I thought I would just get the piles back in the boxes to separate like entities. But once I got started, things just went together well and before I knew it, everything was neat and orderly!
A bonus! Even Drew told me my room looked nice, in spite of the fact that I get to put household things like suitcases and Christmas decorations in my space. Amazing what one new storage unit and doing laundry can do for you. And it turned out to be more restful sleeping with things organized. Who knew?
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Ice Cream
Rochester seems to be the soft ice cream capital of the world. Drew was all achatter about visiting Lugia's even before we arrived. It was one of the first places we went and was better than I remembered. You get practically an entire pint in your small cone, and I remembered that you have to ask for a dish because the ice cream won't stay on the cone.
Then we discovered Byrne dairy - their cones, while smaller (but not by much) are smooth and creamy. We have already visited there twice (blush). Then there are multiple Abbotts Custard stands, which so far I have been able to resist - especially high calorie and rich. And I haven't even begun to list the numerous ice cream parlors in the malls like Friendly's and Baskin Robbins. Not to mention the irresistible sales in the grocery stores - 2 half gallons for $5, and $1.99 a half gallon, and even less. The boys have ice cream sale radar!
If the hot weather keeps up and Drew keeps finding new reasons to convince me to stop ( but Mom, dairy is necessary for calcium and I need strong bones to play soccer), I will add on more pounds than I want to think about. I remember when I visited my Gram in the summer, she always had fudgsicles and creamsicles in her freezer, and every night after we came in from 'settin' in the yard' we would have a small dish of ice cream. Such fond memories of good times. These are indeed good times, not thinking about bad things, looking forward with such happiness to a normal fall semester. Perhaps I can deal with a few extra pounds this summer. After all, I am walking at least a mile a day and trying to swim twice a week. So maybe the two will cancel each other out (can you tell I am grasping at straws here?).
Well, I have to go. There's a carton of chocolate marshmallow ice cream in the freezer calling my name . . .
Then we discovered Byrne dairy - their cones, while smaller (but not by much) are smooth and creamy. We have already visited there twice (blush). Then there are multiple Abbotts Custard stands, which so far I have been able to resist - especially high calorie and rich. And I haven't even begun to list the numerous ice cream parlors in the malls like Friendly's and Baskin Robbins. Not to mention the irresistible sales in the grocery stores - 2 half gallons for $5, and $1.99 a half gallon, and even less. The boys have ice cream sale radar!
If the hot weather keeps up and Drew keeps finding new reasons to convince me to stop ( but Mom, dairy is necessary for calcium and I need strong bones to play soccer), I will add on more pounds than I want to think about. I remember when I visited my Gram in the summer, she always had fudgsicles and creamsicles in her freezer, and every night after we came in from 'settin' in the yard' we would have a small dish of ice cream. Such fond memories of good times. These are indeed good times, not thinking about bad things, looking forward with such happiness to a normal fall semester. Perhaps I can deal with a few extra pounds this summer. After all, I am walking at least a mile a day and trying to swim twice a week. So maybe the two will cancel each other out (can you tell I am grasping at straws here?).
Well, I have to go. There's a carton of chocolate marshmallow ice cream in the freezer calling my name . . .
Friday, July 27, 2007
Foggy Day
At 3 am my bladder decided it was time for an exodus. Some times you can ignore your body, sometimes you can't. This was one of those "can't" times. Afterwards, I glanced out my bedroom window and was greeted with a fairyland scene of wispy fog and muted moonlight. It was so beautiful I couldn't resist. I know its not advisable to go wandering about in the middle of the night, but the area behind our building is a protected common square, and no one was stirring, not even the birds.
I tiptoed outside and felt the misty air caress my cheeks. It was delightfully cool and refreshing. The wet grass kissed my sandal clad feet, bringing a shiver of delight to my spine and making each step squeak with wetness. I quietly wandered toward the quaint pine tree at the other end of the square, feeling ever so like an escapee pursued by some matron willing me back inside. I glanced over my shoulder, but no one was there. It was spooky, like looking through filmy gauze.
I touched the prickly needles of the pine tree, wishing for a whiff of that Christmasy pine scent to no avail. In the distance, a train whistle cried mournfully. At my feet, a puffy toad rustled in the grass, scrambling away from perceived danger. I inhaled deeply, coughing in the syrupy air. Shivering, I headed back, twirling like a little girl in the mists that slowly swirled out of my way, begrudging my interruption in their freedom.
As I drifted back to sleep, snuggling down in my quilts, I wondered what such a day would bring. Surely not clarity of vision! I awoke at 6 for devotions, the sky still smoky with fog. It would be tough getting Drew out of bed, convincing him that it was really morning. But by 7, the fog had completely dissipated, the sun was shining as if the magic of the night had never happened.
I touched the glass of my window in disbelief . How could something so real, so wet, so cold have left so quickly, faded like a dream? No matter. In the warm light of the sun, more adventures awaited, reality as tangible as the fog was soft. And in the bright light, Drew bounded up, ready too for adventure. Nice.
I tiptoed outside and felt the misty air caress my cheeks. It was delightfully cool and refreshing. The wet grass kissed my sandal clad feet, bringing a shiver of delight to my spine and making each step squeak with wetness. I quietly wandered toward the quaint pine tree at the other end of the square, feeling ever so like an escapee pursued by some matron willing me back inside. I glanced over my shoulder, but no one was there. It was spooky, like looking through filmy gauze.
I touched the prickly needles of the pine tree, wishing for a whiff of that Christmasy pine scent to no avail. In the distance, a train whistle cried mournfully. At my feet, a puffy toad rustled in the grass, scrambling away from perceived danger. I inhaled deeply, coughing in the syrupy air. Shivering, I headed back, twirling like a little girl in the mists that slowly swirled out of my way, begrudging my interruption in their freedom.
As I drifted back to sleep, snuggling down in my quilts, I wondered what such a day would bring. Surely not clarity of vision! I awoke at 6 for devotions, the sky still smoky with fog. It would be tough getting Drew out of bed, convincing him that it was really morning. But by 7, the fog had completely dissipated, the sun was shining as if the magic of the night had never happened.
I touched the glass of my window in disbelief . How could something so real, so wet, so cold have left so quickly, faded like a dream? No matter. In the warm light of the sun, more adventures awaited, reality as tangible as the fog was soft. And in the bright light, Drew bounded up, ready too for adventure. Nice.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Out of Sync
This morning Drew was having a hard time getting ready. I kept checking to see if he was ready to walk out the door. He had one sock on, then the other. He managed to get one sneaker on, and got stalled. I finally told him I was going to start and he should catch up as quickly as he could. He usually rides his scooter ahead, then sits on a convenient rock or hillside to wait for me.
I got clear to the other side of the complex before I saw him behind me. He was puttering along in no big hurry while I was keeping one eye on my watch and the other on him. One of the reasons I cherish our morning walks is that I get to spend time with him alone. We can and often do chat about things. Nothing earth shattering or philosophical or anything. Just stuff.
And while we are talking about stuff, the little important things tend to wriggle out into the bright light of day. Those pieces that cement our relationship a bit tighter, those half formed dreams and usually unspoken fears and tiny misconceptions that can derail a mother-son closeness.
But this morning there would be no little chat, no bonding, no time together. We were out of sync, and didn't meet up until after I entered the library. I see now that it was a mistake to begin without him. It would have been just a minute or so more of waiting. I wonder how many times I have moved on before he was ready. Definitely something I shall have to watch. I would much rather be in sync while things are going well. Makes for smoother times when life gets bumpy.
I got clear to the other side of the complex before I saw him behind me. He was puttering along in no big hurry while I was keeping one eye on my watch and the other on him. One of the reasons I cherish our morning walks is that I get to spend time with him alone. We can and often do chat about things. Nothing earth shattering or philosophical or anything. Just stuff.
And while we are talking about stuff, the little important things tend to wriggle out into the bright light of day. Those pieces that cement our relationship a bit tighter, those half formed dreams and usually unspoken fears and tiny misconceptions that can derail a mother-son closeness.
But this morning there would be no little chat, no bonding, no time together. We were out of sync, and didn't meet up until after I entered the library. I see now that it was a mistake to begin without him. It would have been just a minute or so more of waiting. I wonder how many times I have moved on before he was ready. Definitely something I shall have to watch. I would much rather be in sync while things are going well. Makes for smoother times when life gets bumpy.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Nails!
One of the things affected by cancer treatment are your nails. They can get brittle and thin, break easily, become susceptible to fungus, or get ridged. Often while you are undergoing treatment you can't put polish or nail strengthener on, especially if you are undergoing surgery. If you have had lymph gland involvement, you shouldn't even have a manicure for fear of infection potential.
My nails didn't have a lot of trouble, but they basically slowed down in growing. It would take months before I needed to cut my nails. And I didn't have any professional manicures done for quite some time, nor use any nail products. That became my new norm. I would need a manicure about every six months, and I refrained from using polish at all, preferring to just glue on some pretty fake nails when I attended some special occasion.
Even though I had my nails done in Connecticut not too long ago (you may remember the post) since moving to Rochester, I suddenly noticed that my nails were long. So I cut them. That was a week ago. Today I noticed that I need to cut them again! That may not seem like such a big deal to anyone else, but to me, it was an extraordinary yahoo moment. Something has returned to normal! What a great sign.
Of course, the truth is that now that I am back to playing piano on a semi regular basis, I have to keep them short. But I don't mind cutting them often. I welcome the return of body function, even such a simple one.
So, here's a big wahoo, and an invitation to celebrate the little moments - go get yourself a super manicure and be thankful for your beautiful gorgeous nails.
My nails didn't have a lot of trouble, but they basically slowed down in growing. It would take months before I needed to cut my nails. And I didn't have any professional manicures done for quite some time, nor use any nail products. That became my new norm. I would need a manicure about every six months, and I refrained from using polish at all, preferring to just glue on some pretty fake nails when I attended some special occasion.
Even though I had my nails done in Connecticut not too long ago (you may remember the post) since moving to Rochester, I suddenly noticed that my nails were long. So I cut them. That was a week ago. Today I noticed that I need to cut them again! That may not seem like such a big deal to anyone else, but to me, it was an extraordinary yahoo moment. Something has returned to normal! What a great sign.
Of course, the truth is that now that I am back to playing piano on a semi regular basis, I have to keep them short. But I don't mind cutting them often. I welcome the return of body function, even such a simple one.
So, here's a big wahoo, and an invitation to celebrate the little moments - go get yourself a super manicure and be thankful for your beautiful gorgeous nails.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Summer Sings
Every summer, Eastman holds a number of summer sings - they invite everyone who wants to, to come to Kilbourn Hall and read through a pre-announced substantial choral work. If there are solo parts, they have guest soloists, and there are phenomenal pianists who play both the part of the orchestra and read from the open score all the vocal parts simultaneously. You can either rent a score from their ensemble library, bring your own, or purchase a new one from the bookstore rep (which can make staying together a challenge when everyone has different editions with different pagination and mensuration). Its a lot of fun and you get to sing a piece you may not know or have the opportunity to do often.
It also gives conducting students a way to try out a piece they are working on, or introduce the community to a piece that will be worked up by the town and gown Eastman Rochester Chorus the coming fall. I drove downtown with high hopes and not a little nervousness since I have not done any sightreading or serious singing for awhile and I was fearful of the state I might find myself in. How much had I lost? I put in a CD and began to sing along, warming up my vocal chords.
Tonight the selection was Bruckner's Mass No. 2 in e minor, a delightful yet challenging little work that, while short, has no solo parts so the choir gets to do a lot of singing. Bill Weinert was conducting, and interspersed our attempts with his wry sense of humor - commenting on Bruckner's habit of jumping from key to key without preparation or warning, encouraging the tenors not to let the basses intimidate them when they had notes close together, telling sopranos to sing louder (e gad). I was delighted to discover that I could do almost everything just fine. In fact, I seem to have improved a bit from the hiatus. Things clicked along pretty well. The few places I missed the first time I got on the second go round.
It was wonderful to be in the vibrant hall with upwards of 200 singers of all status - professional, amateur, tone deaf - we were all there. Before I had realized it, 2 hours had flown by. We had been introduced to the work, tried out the most challenging places, taken a short break, and then sung through the entire work before the clock struck time. It felt good to be singing again, even for a single evening.
It also gives conducting students a way to try out a piece they are working on, or introduce the community to a piece that will be worked up by the town and gown Eastman Rochester Chorus the coming fall. I drove downtown with high hopes and not a little nervousness since I have not done any sightreading or serious singing for awhile and I was fearful of the state I might find myself in. How much had I lost? I put in a CD and began to sing along, warming up my vocal chords.
Tonight the selection was Bruckner's Mass No. 2 in e minor, a delightful yet challenging little work that, while short, has no solo parts so the choir gets to do a lot of singing. Bill Weinert was conducting, and interspersed our attempts with his wry sense of humor - commenting on Bruckner's habit of jumping from key to key without preparation or warning, encouraging the tenors not to let the basses intimidate them when they had notes close together, telling sopranos to sing louder (e gad). I was delighted to discover that I could do almost everything just fine. In fact, I seem to have improved a bit from the hiatus. Things clicked along pretty well. The few places I missed the first time I got on the second go round.
It was wonderful to be in the vibrant hall with upwards of 200 singers of all status - professional, amateur, tone deaf - we were all there. Before I had realized it, 2 hours had flown by. We had been introduced to the work, tried out the most challenging places, taken a short break, and then sung through the entire work before the clock struck time. It felt good to be singing again, even for a single evening.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Make Up Day
It didn't start out to be an extraordinary day. In fact, my upstairs neighbors had decided to hold a bowling tournament in the bedroom above mine that continued well into the wee hours of the morning. At least that's what it sounded like, complete with stomping feet, dropped heavy items and lots of talking and laughter. I tried to plug my ears, but even the toughest ear plugs couldn't handle the rumbling. I tried turning the air purifier up to the top level, but no soap. I tried praying hellfire and brimstone down from heaven to no avail. I finally gave in to my irresistible impulse to take a stick and pound on the ceiling in the hopes that 1) they would actually hear it over their ruckus and 2) it wouldn't make them mad and desirous of retaliation. All that did was make me feel a bit less explosive.
They finally calmed down, I went to sleep, and all too soon I woke for devotions with none too much energy. I dragged myself about getting ready, called Drew who didn't move and decided I didn't have the wherewithall to fight him, especially since he was also kept awake late. I looked out the window to an overcast sky promising rain. It was all I could do to force myself to step outside and shut the door irrevocably behind me, heading off cross lots towards the library. Monday indeed!
I was totally unprepared for the delight I discovered on my walk. As I stood by the step near the back door, I thought I heard a bumblebee. "Great," I thought. "All I need is to get stung." But a flash of irridescent blue caught my eye. It wasn't a bumblebee at all but a beautiful hummingbird helping itself to the nectar in the flowering bushed nearby.
Halfway across the first lot I stepped in a grassy hollow and startled a mourning dove who fluttered up past my face with a whir of cooing. Before I had gotten as far as the complex office, I encountered a tiny baby bunny quivering in the grass near an empty apartment. It never moved. I walked with inches of it and it just sat there breathing rapidly, its little heart thumping practically out of its chest.
At the special wildlife section, two goldfinches flew right in front of my eyes, bouncing off a purple thistle and darting into a nearby honeysuckle vine. Delicate morning glories sprinkled the lawn by the church, and geese floated lazily on the pond. It was as if they were trying to make up for their absence yesterday during my Black Creek walk.
Later I watched with amusement as an entire population of sea gulls sat on the inside of the track while 300 kids played soccer drills in the rain. I wondered if the quiet spectators, downed by a steady summer rain, thought the humans a bit weird to be exerting so much energy to no end.
Finally on the way home from the grocery store, we slowed the car for "goose bumps" - a gaggle of geese walking down the road with no concern for the traffic they were impeding. What an oddly delightful rainy nature-filled Monday it turned out to be.
As for my noisy neighbors, I suspect they missed it all. Probably too exhausted from their late night antics.
They finally calmed down, I went to sleep, and all too soon I woke for devotions with none too much energy. I dragged myself about getting ready, called Drew who didn't move and decided I didn't have the wherewithall to fight him, especially since he was also kept awake late. I looked out the window to an overcast sky promising rain. It was all I could do to force myself to step outside and shut the door irrevocably behind me, heading off cross lots towards the library. Monday indeed!
I was totally unprepared for the delight I discovered on my walk. As I stood by the step near the back door, I thought I heard a bumblebee. "Great," I thought. "All I need is to get stung." But a flash of irridescent blue caught my eye. It wasn't a bumblebee at all but a beautiful hummingbird helping itself to the nectar in the flowering bushed nearby.
Halfway across the first lot I stepped in a grassy hollow and startled a mourning dove who fluttered up past my face with a whir of cooing. Before I had gotten as far as the complex office, I encountered a tiny baby bunny quivering in the grass near an empty apartment. It never moved. I walked with inches of it and it just sat there breathing rapidly, its little heart thumping practically out of its chest.
At the special wildlife section, two goldfinches flew right in front of my eyes, bouncing off a purple thistle and darting into a nearby honeysuckle vine. Delicate morning glories sprinkled the lawn by the church, and geese floated lazily on the pond. It was as if they were trying to make up for their absence yesterday during my Black Creek walk.
Later I watched with amusement as an entire population of sea gulls sat on the inside of the track while 300 kids played soccer drills in the rain. I wondered if the quiet spectators, downed by a steady summer rain, thought the humans a bit weird to be exerting so much energy to no end.
Finally on the way home from the grocery store, we slowed the car for "goose bumps" - a gaggle of geese walking down the road with no concern for the traffic they were impeding. What an oddly delightful rainy nature-filled Monday it turned out to be.
As for my noisy neighbors, I suspect they missed it all. Probably too exhausted from their late night antics.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Black Creek Park
It didn't turn out at all like I had thought. First off, Kiel didn't want to go. With all his soccer training, the thought of walking any more just wasn't an option. And because Kiel didn't want to go, neither did Drew. But I convinced him that since he had been to Black Creek Park and I hadn't, and since I really shouldn't go alone, he should be the man of the house and go with me.
Under protest, he agreed. Kiel had already made plans, so he dropped us off and agreed to return to pick us up. The day was pleasant enough - not too hot, a bit of breeze. Even though we had looked at the online map ahead of time, there were no signs marking the trails. Just gravel paths leading off in different directions from the playground.
We selected the gravel path to the right, walked a short distance, and found that the way quickly divided into three or four paths. We selected the one over the log bridge. In fact, the bridge was a bit scary and tipsy, spanning a marshy area with cattails and swampy water. On the far side, there was a wide strip of mown grass which led to more paths. Unsure about being able to find our way back, we decided to turn around and try another path. We went back toward the bridge to see where the other paths led, selected another one and set off. I expected to see some wildlife, a quiet babbling creek, pretty flowers, maybe a few butterflies. Soon we were walking under a thick leafy bower on a soft dirt path crowded by bushes and vines.
The only wildlife we were encountering were insects - mostly black flies, bees, and dragonflies. We kept walking, swatting them away when they got too close or started divebombing. Surely this would give way to some enchanted meadow or gurgling brook. After ten minutes, the path divided again, this time in four directions. I tried to relate where we were to the maps we had seen, but nothing seemed to make sense. The map had not indicated all these little offshoots.
At least there was a marker that had the number 18 on it directly in front of us. I figured if we went down another path, we could at least get back to the marker. We went to the right and soon we were indeed on a cliff high above a little creek. Must be Black Creek I reasoned. But when the cliff got shorter and we got closer to the water, I suspected they had misnamed the creek. It wasn't black, but it was muddy and dirty and smelled like a sewer. Yuck.
About that juncture, a family with three young children and one in a stroller stopped and asked us where the path led and did we know the way out. Since they were headed the same direction as we were, I had to admit that I had no idea where we were heading. They too had looked at the maps and couldn't figure out the lay of thee land.
The forest path suddenly emptied out into a meadow filled with picnic tables and we could hear talking and laughing up ahead. We must have somehow doubled back to where we started. I was relieved since I had forgotten my axle grease and I was definitely seizing up. But alas! It turned out to be a new picnic area and not the one by the playground. At least there were restrooms, and I was able to perform a temporary fix. There was no help for it - after 40 minutes of walking, we were going to have to go back the way we came and hope we could find the 18 marker which would lead us to the rickety bridge.
Drew, unhappy at best to be there in the first place, decided it was a good time to sing Proud Mary as loudly as he could since no one else was around. In between repeating the two lines he remembered, he chattered nonstop, punctuated by asking me if he had any ticks on him and leaping to one side or the other to avoid daddy long legs and snake holes.
Fortunately, we easily found the 18 marker and after some concentrated walking with me constantly shushing Drew, we clambered across the decrepit bridge and climbed the incline to the playground. There was Kiel waiting for us. I was disappointed that I hadn't seen a single bunny, deer, fox or even squirrel. The few times I heard a bird singing, it got scared away by Drew. As for the water, well, that was nothing to write home about. 1500+ acres of just greenery and scary winding paths.
I turned to Drew and started to say that next week when we returned we would have to investigate the path in the other direction when Drew looked at me as if I had lost my mind, and said, "Mom, are you crazy? The only time I want to come back here is in the winter when the have sledding down that big hill."
"But Drew, I thought you liked camping?" I said.
"Camping, yeah. But this is just walking around trying to figure out where the car is! No thanks."
I guess that means that next week we will be exploring one of Rochester's *other* parks.
Under protest, he agreed. Kiel had already made plans, so he dropped us off and agreed to return to pick us up. The day was pleasant enough - not too hot, a bit of breeze. Even though we had looked at the online map ahead of time, there were no signs marking the trails. Just gravel paths leading off in different directions from the playground.
We selected the gravel path to the right, walked a short distance, and found that the way quickly divided into three or four paths. We selected the one over the log bridge. In fact, the bridge was a bit scary and tipsy, spanning a marshy area with cattails and swampy water. On the far side, there was a wide strip of mown grass which led to more paths. Unsure about being able to find our way back, we decided to turn around and try another path. We went back toward the bridge to see where the other paths led, selected another one and set off. I expected to see some wildlife, a quiet babbling creek, pretty flowers, maybe a few butterflies. Soon we were walking under a thick leafy bower on a soft dirt path crowded by bushes and vines.
The only wildlife we were encountering were insects - mostly black flies, bees, and dragonflies. We kept walking, swatting them away when they got too close or started divebombing. Surely this would give way to some enchanted meadow or gurgling brook. After ten minutes, the path divided again, this time in four directions. I tried to relate where we were to the maps we had seen, but nothing seemed to make sense. The map had not indicated all these little offshoots.
At least there was a marker that had the number 18 on it directly in front of us. I figured if we went down another path, we could at least get back to the marker. We went to the right and soon we were indeed on a cliff high above a little creek. Must be Black Creek I reasoned. But when the cliff got shorter and we got closer to the water, I suspected they had misnamed the creek. It wasn't black, but it was muddy and dirty and smelled like a sewer. Yuck.
About that juncture, a family with three young children and one in a stroller stopped and asked us where the path led and did we know the way out. Since they were headed the same direction as we were, I had to admit that I had no idea where we were heading. They too had looked at the maps and couldn't figure out the lay of thee land.
The forest path suddenly emptied out into a meadow filled with picnic tables and we could hear talking and laughing up ahead. We must have somehow doubled back to where we started. I was relieved since I had forgotten my axle grease and I was definitely seizing up. But alas! It turned out to be a new picnic area and not the one by the playground. At least there were restrooms, and I was able to perform a temporary fix. There was no help for it - after 40 minutes of walking, we were going to have to go back the way we came and hope we could find the 18 marker which would lead us to the rickety bridge.
Drew, unhappy at best to be there in the first place, decided it was a good time to sing Proud Mary as loudly as he could since no one else was around. In between repeating the two lines he remembered, he chattered nonstop, punctuated by asking me if he had any ticks on him and leaping to one side or the other to avoid daddy long legs and snake holes.
Fortunately, we easily found the 18 marker and after some concentrated walking with me constantly shushing Drew, we clambered across the decrepit bridge and climbed the incline to the playground. There was Kiel waiting for us. I was disappointed that I hadn't seen a single bunny, deer, fox or even squirrel. The few times I heard a bird singing, it got scared away by Drew. As for the water, well, that was nothing to write home about. 1500+ acres of just greenery and scary winding paths.
I turned to Drew and started to say that next week when we returned we would have to investigate the path in the other direction when Drew looked at me as if I had lost my mind, and said, "Mom, are you crazy? The only time I want to come back here is in the winter when the have sledding down that big hill."
"But Drew, I thought you liked camping?" I said.
"Camping, yeah. But this is just walking around trying to figure out where the car is! No thanks."
I guess that means that next week we will be exploring one of Rochester's *other* parks.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
The Farmer's Market
On Saturdays, one of the area churches hosts a farmer's market from 10 to 1. Last week I intended to stop, but thought it was open until 2 and managed to miss it. This week though, I stopped in time. I pulled into the blacktopped drive behind a line of cars and we slowly crept down past the tents and shoppers into the crowded parking lot. I wondered if that same lot would be as full on Sunday morning, or if the people wandering about would be as excited.
I wanted to see what everyone was offering before I made any decisions about what to get, so I wandered the whole length of the lawn, eyeing the tables with interest. Many offered the same fare - huge ripe red tomatoes, brilliant yellow squash, deep green zucchini, dark red beets, crisp orange carrots, soft fuzzy peaches, marbled cherries, long firm cucumbers, pint baskets of blueberries - all locally grown.
Some produce looked a bit wilty or ragged, others had a slightly better price, or somewhat fuller containers. Some stands were busy with four or five people all helping someone, others had only one person who was busy putting out more delectables while taking money. The place was abuzz with activity, not unlike a beehive.
I began at the far end, asking what the types of peaches were, tasting samples, splurging on some apricots, adding one bag after another to my carrying arm, spreading my cash fairly equally from one end to the other, getting cucumbers here, a green pepper there, wishing I could find the same tasty tomatoes my grandmother used to grow.
I wondered if I could handle all this fresh stuff. The veggies will be OK since I can cook them and as long as I am careful not to eat too much in one day, I shouldn't get sick. The fruit is so tempting, I worry whether I will overdo and end up regretting it. But I rationalize that my system grows stronger with each passing month, and that these items are full of healthy nutrients that should help strengthen my immune system and build my body.
I spend every dollar in my wallet, stopping short of getting a bouquet of fresh flowers (the sunflowers looked so cheery), and managing to avoid the Amish table loaded with baked goods. I proudly port my trophies home, laying them out on the counter, calling the boys to come see, come taste.
I promise myself to go slow, not overdo. And keep the exercise going. Sunday we are planning to take a walk in Black Creek park. As you can see, there are many trails to explore, and many other parks in this area. We are committed to experiencing as many of them as we can before the weather prevents us from going or schedules get too insane.
I watch the boys din into the array of good things, and wonder if there will be anything left from the farmer's market to take with us on our Sunday venture!
I wanted to see what everyone was offering before I made any decisions about what to get, so I wandered the whole length of the lawn, eyeing the tables with interest. Many offered the same fare - huge ripe red tomatoes, brilliant yellow squash, deep green zucchini, dark red beets, crisp orange carrots, soft fuzzy peaches, marbled cherries, long firm cucumbers, pint baskets of blueberries - all locally grown.
Some produce looked a bit wilty or ragged, others had a slightly better price, or somewhat fuller containers. Some stands were busy with four or five people all helping someone, others had only one person who was busy putting out more delectables while taking money. The place was abuzz with activity, not unlike a beehive.
I began at the far end, asking what the types of peaches were, tasting samples, splurging on some apricots, adding one bag after another to my carrying arm, spreading my cash fairly equally from one end to the other, getting cucumbers here, a green pepper there, wishing I could find the same tasty tomatoes my grandmother used to grow.
I wondered if I could handle all this fresh stuff. The veggies will be OK since I can cook them and as long as I am careful not to eat too much in one day, I shouldn't get sick. The fruit is so tempting, I worry whether I will overdo and end up regretting it. But I rationalize that my system grows stronger with each passing month, and that these items are full of healthy nutrients that should help strengthen my immune system and build my body.
I spend every dollar in my wallet, stopping short of getting a bouquet of fresh flowers (the sunflowers looked so cheery), and managing to avoid the Amish table loaded with baked goods. I proudly port my trophies home, laying them out on the counter, calling the boys to come see, come taste.
I promise myself to go slow, not overdo. And keep the exercise going. Sunday we are planning to take a walk in Black Creek park. As you can see, there are many trails to explore, and many other parks in this area. We are committed to experiencing as many of them as we can before the weather prevents us from going or schedules get too insane.
I watch the boys din into the array of good things, and wonder if there will be anything left from the farmer's market to take with us on our Sunday venture!
Friday, July 20, 2007
Spinning My Wheels
Friday! Yahoo - we get out early and I had a list of tasks to do, all things that I prefer not to take time off work to handle, but places that are not open beyond regular 9 - 5 hours. I started out in high hopes, planning to take care of three or four things and then look for some curtains for the sliding glass doors.
At the first stop, I was informed that there would be a long wait. I knew if I waited there, I would not get my other errands taken care of, so I asked if I could make an appointment for next week, but they only operate on a first come, first served basis. I opted to return next week when I had fewer stops on my list.
At the second place, I was told the person who takes care of that part was not in and there was no one else who could help me. Rats! On to the third place. Things were going better - we got a lot of the details settled and papers filled out, only to be halted just before finishing by a missing piece of information that would take a letter and some time to get. Foo.
By this time, having accomplished nothing on my list, I decided to at least find out when the fourth place would be open on Saturday. But alas, the might Casey struck out again. It is not open on Saturdays. I am beginning to suspect a communist plot. Either I will have to take time off work or find a clone to handle things while I am otherwise engaged.
I gave up and took the boys to Tom Wahls for dinner. I haven't eaten there in years. In fact, since my college days. They are still known for their burgers and root beer. Not much has changed except the prices and the number of locations. Its still good for burgers and fries.
Feeling full and ready to dig in again, we headed off to find some curtains. The sliding door is unique in that it has three doors instead of two, and is therefore 11 feet long - a bit more than the norm. We looked in department stores, chain stores, linen stores, specialty curtain places, bathroom stores and goodwills. I was amazed at how weird, bland, and expensive curtains have become! Not that I haven't been looking for awhile, its just that I had an idea of what I wanted, and I don't see anything like it.
I'm sure I could pay a lot of money to get what I want, but they are curtains for crying out Pete. I have half a mind to just staple a sheet over the door and be done with it (and I have to admit I did look at some sheets). At last I found a sales clerck in Penneys and told her my plight. She made a number of good suggestions (all of which I rejected), but I did find something that was acceptable (how sad to have to settle for something less than you dreamed of). But again, the price was more than I really wanted to invest, especially since it wasn't jumping off the shelf and saying "pick me! pick me!"
The lady saw my hesitation, and mentioned that even though they didn't have the size I needed and we were going to have to order them from the catalog, I would not have to pay postage. I am not convinced. She reminded me that they were on sale for 50% off. I still hesitated. Finally she offered me a coupon for an additional $15 off, and I gave in.
I still have to wait three days until they arrive. Oh, well. Meantime, I need to find a curtain rod set that is 11 feet long. . .
At the first stop, I was informed that there would be a long wait. I knew if I waited there, I would not get my other errands taken care of, so I asked if I could make an appointment for next week, but they only operate on a first come, first served basis. I opted to return next week when I had fewer stops on my list.
At the second place, I was told the person who takes care of that part was not in and there was no one else who could help me. Rats! On to the third place. Things were going better - we got a lot of the details settled and papers filled out, only to be halted just before finishing by a missing piece of information that would take a letter and some time to get. Foo.
By this time, having accomplished nothing on my list, I decided to at least find out when the fourth place would be open on Saturday. But alas, the might Casey struck out again. It is not open on Saturdays. I am beginning to suspect a communist plot. Either I will have to take time off work or find a clone to handle things while I am otherwise engaged.
I gave up and took the boys to Tom Wahls for dinner. I haven't eaten there in years. In fact, since my college days. They are still known for their burgers and root beer. Not much has changed except the prices and the number of locations. Its still good for burgers and fries.
Feeling full and ready to dig in again, we headed off to find some curtains. The sliding door is unique in that it has three doors instead of two, and is therefore 11 feet long - a bit more than the norm. We looked in department stores, chain stores, linen stores, specialty curtain places, bathroom stores and goodwills. I was amazed at how weird, bland, and expensive curtains have become! Not that I haven't been looking for awhile, its just that I had an idea of what I wanted, and I don't see anything like it.
I'm sure I could pay a lot of money to get what I want, but they are curtains for crying out Pete. I have half a mind to just staple a sheet over the door and be done with it (and I have to admit I did look at some sheets). At last I found a sales clerck in Penneys and told her my plight. She made a number of good suggestions (all of which I rejected), but I did find something that was acceptable (how sad to have to settle for something less than you dreamed of). But again, the price was more than I really wanted to invest, especially since it wasn't jumping off the shelf and saying "pick me! pick me!"
The lady saw my hesitation, and mentioned that even though they didn't have the size I needed and we were going to have to order them from the catalog, I would not have to pay postage. I am not convinced. She reminded me that they were on sale for 50% off. I still hesitated. Finally she offered me a coupon for an additional $15 off, and I gave in.
I still have to wait three days until they arrive. Oh, well. Meantime, I need to find a curtain rod set that is 11 feet long. . .
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Magic
Every morning it is a struggle to convince Drew to get up early enough to be ready to leave on time. Every night it is impossible to get Drew to go to bed on time, especially when his brother stays up half the night. It does no good for him to set his alarm - it goes off and he simply does not hear it. It does little good to open his door, touch his shoulder, turn on the light, open the curtains, call his name - he half rouses, then lays back down and falls asleep again.
I have to call him repeatedly, shake him, rattle things, make noise - its very trying to have to stop whatever I am doing to call him again and again. He usually manages to finally get up a minute before we have to go out the door, slide into his pants and shoes and tumble into the living room. Hardly an ideal system.
Once in awhile I resort to drastic measures such as pouring cold water on his head - which does not make him very happy. Me either. So I have been thinking. What would motivate him to get up without this whole faulderaul? I refuse to be part of this little drama. I tried to remember what made me get up when I was his age. That wasn't too helpful since I have always been an early riser, and the eldest daughter and therefore unconcerned that I match an older siblings behavior.
While I was cogitating on it, Drew asked about getting an allowance. I have always been adamantly opposed to giving children money. I feel that if they get a piece of the loaf it will be because they have contributed to its creation. Drew and I tried the chores idea before, but there was no way for me to enforce it, and he only half did the assigned tasks. So we ended up without any formal agreement over it.
I reminded him that he would have to work to earn an allowance. We went to bed with it still on our minds. In the morning, I suggested we create a point system. He could choose to earn points by doing various chores. If he chose not to do them, he wouldn't earn any points. There would be demerits for certain undesirable actions like forgetting to brush his teeth before bed or being disrespectful to an adult. We would document everything, and I would have to sign off on the task as being satisfactory. At the end of two weeks (my pay period), we would add up his points, subtract any demerits, and he could collect a "salary" based on his work.
He thought it over and agreed. We drew up the contract. The first night, he was in bed asleep before I checked to see if he was getting ready. In the morning, he popped out of bed before his alarm rang. It was pure MAGIC! I couldn't believe this was the same boy! I came home that night to find the dishes done, the floor swept, the rug vacuumed, and the garbage taken out. Gasp!
The next day the same thing. Now the laundry was done, the bathroom sparkling - wow! Why didn't I think of this a long time ago? Then the bomb dropped. According to the system, I owed him $30 after just two days. Wait. Something is wrong here. I talked frankly to him about how I couldn't afford to pay him $75 a week - I would go broke!
We renegotiated. We agreed to a ceiling on the earning potential so my wallet could survive. He calmed down a bit with his zeal. Now I come home to reasonable cleanliness, and he is happily adding up points. The best part is that the morning is easier as is bedtime. I think he is happy. I know I am. He already spent some of his hard earned dough on a few things, including taking his friends to the pool ($2 fee for each guest).
I just hope this continues to work once school starts! I love it when a plan works.
I have to call him repeatedly, shake him, rattle things, make noise - its very trying to have to stop whatever I am doing to call him again and again. He usually manages to finally get up a minute before we have to go out the door, slide into his pants and shoes and tumble into the living room. Hardly an ideal system.
Once in awhile I resort to drastic measures such as pouring cold water on his head - which does not make him very happy. Me either. So I have been thinking. What would motivate him to get up without this whole faulderaul? I refuse to be part of this little drama. I tried to remember what made me get up when I was his age. That wasn't too helpful since I have always been an early riser, and the eldest daughter and therefore unconcerned that I match an older siblings behavior.
While I was cogitating on it, Drew asked about getting an allowance. I have always been adamantly opposed to giving children money. I feel that if they get a piece of the loaf it will be because they have contributed to its creation. Drew and I tried the chores idea before, but there was no way for me to enforce it, and he only half did the assigned tasks. So we ended up without any formal agreement over it.
I reminded him that he would have to work to earn an allowance. We went to bed with it still on our minds. In the morning, I suggested we create a point system. He could choose to earn points by doing various chores. If he chose not to do them, he wouldn't earn any points. There would be demerits for certain undesirable actions like forgetting to brush his teeth before bed or being disrespectful to an adult. We would document everything, and I would have to sign off on the task as being satisfactory. At the end of two weeks (my pay period), we would add up his points, subtract any demerits, and he could collect a "salary" based on his work.
He thought it over and agreed. We drew up the contract. The first night, he was in bed asleep before I checked to see if he was getting ready. In the morning, he popped out of bed before his alarm rang. It was pure MAGIC! I couldn't believe this was the same boy! I came home that night to find the dishes done, the floor swept, the rug vacuumed, and the garbage taken out. Gasp!
The next day the same thing. Now the laundry was done, the bathroom sparkling - wow! Why didn't I think of this a long time ago? Then the bomb dropped. According to the system, I owed him $30 after just two days. Wait. Something is wrong here. I talked frankly to him about how I couldn't afford to pay him $75 a week - I would go broke!
We renegotiated. We agreed to a ceiling on the earning potential so my wallet could survive. He calmed down a bit with his zeal. Now I come home to reasonable cleanliness, and he is happily adding up points. The best part is that the morning is easier as is bedtime. I think he is happy. I know I am. He already spent some of his hard earned dough on a few things, including taking his friends to the pool ($2 fee for each guest).
I just hope this continues to work once school starts! I love it when a plan works.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
HMO Havoc
It has been so nice to act like I don't have any health concerns. I have focused on settling details about being in a new place with new possibilities - things like transferring car insurance, getting library cards, setting up bank accounts, decorating the apartment, unpacking. It was pretty easy to dismiss any thoughts of health problems and pretend I am normal!
But eventually reality sets in, the new insurance cards arrive, and you are forced to think about doctors and hospitals. I now remember why I have opted for the non-HMO insurance in other places. Rochester is, unfortunately, the HMO capital of the world. There is no choice of health care plans. There is one plan and its an HMO. It's not that I think you get a different quality of care - it is the stupid hoops you have to jump through to get into the system.
I naively sat with the HR person as she introduced me to the plan. For one thing it is more expensive than I have been paying for health insurance. But she smilingly assured me that their provider network was quite large and as far as she knew, no one had been denied the right to see the doctor they wanted.
She encouraged me to ask around at work and see who employees might recommend as she plopped the telephone-sized book of providers on the desk in front of me. Sounded simple. Ask who people like, call the most recommended doctor, get an appointment. WRONG! What was I thinking?!! I hadn't been down this road in such a long time that I have forgotten the insanity involved.
I called the first choice name on my list. Even though they are listed as taking new patients, they weren't. In fact, the receptionist nearly laughed at me for thinking I could get in anytime soon. She suggested I call back every 3 months, and in a year or two there might be an opening, depending on a variety of factors, not the least of which was whether they got a replacement doctor who had just left the practice.
Next I went to the insurance company's website and clicked on "Find a Doctor" only to find out that I have to register as a user to get any information. I didn't have my new card on me, so I waited until the next day. I registered and clicked on the link. It asked me a series of questions that seemed almost too much. I selected the "only doctors accepting new patients" link, and got three pages of primary care providers who would accept new patients. I carefully cross referenced them with Google maps to see how far away from me these clinics were and began with the ones closest to me. Turns out neither the close clinics nor the far flung clinics would accept a new patient.
I mentioned to my sister that I was having a hard time finding a doctor, and she gave me the names of her doctors. Her primary doctor has relocated on the far side of the city and is not accepting. The doctors in the clinic where he used to be have all left the clinic, and the doctors now in that clinic are not accepting.
I called a few more names. Same story. I asked one receptionist why they were listed as taking new patients online when in fact they were not. She spieled off a load of reasons. Bottom line: the Rochester area is about 100 doctors short of being able to handle the patient load. People are moving out of the area, including doctors. She at least suggested I call the hospital referral line.
I dialed the number she gave me, only to discover that the number was no longer in use. I went online to the hospital I preferred and scrolled about. I finally found a referral number, and soon was speaking with a sweet young lady who gave me four doctor offices that were definitely taking new patients and were in fact fairly close to where I live. I thanked her profusely and called the first number. Not taking new patients. Same with the rest of the numbers she had given me.
Now I am not being picky. I will take any doctor, regardless of location or specialty, I just need to get someone to give me the needed referral to see the colorectal oncologist recommended by my Yale doctor. Then I realized that the doctor I am trying to see has privileges at Strong Memorial and the referring doctor PCP will need to be in that same hospital in order to give the needed referral. ARGHHH!!!
Time to turn it over to the Lord and let Him work it out. I quit for the day. On the next day, I began the process again. I call the hospital referral line and ask again. They take all the information again to put in their system, then give me a list of names. For each name she gives me, I tell her that I have already called them and they don't take new patients. She acts surprised. I assure her I am not joking.
She finds some new names. I write them down. I call them all. The very last name, the receptionist says YES! they are indeed taking new patients. She looks at her appointment calendar and mutters, "Gee, all the doctor has are new patient appointments for the next three weeks. Do you have a crisis situation?"
I tell her I am a rectal cancer survivor and I need a referral to an oncologist for follow up care. She apologizes and says the earliest appointment available is August 10 at 4 pm. I snap it up like a fish gasping for water. Then she rattles off a list of paperwork that I will have to submit before the appointment - including complete records from my last doctor, permission to blah blah blah. My mind is reeling. And I haven't even made an appointment for Drew yet!
They won't see you for an illness until you have had your initial assessment. Good thing I have the rest of the summer to set things up. Meanwhile, I called back the first clinic that I would prefer, and asked if they have a waiting list. They do not. But if I call in three years. . .
But eventually reality sets in, the new insurance cards arrive, and you are forced to think about doctors and hospitals. I now remember why I have opted for the non-HMO insurance in other places. Rochester is, unfortunately, the HMO capital of the world. There is no choice of health care plans. There is one plan and its an HMO. It's not that I think you get a different quality of care - it is the stupid hoops you have to jump through to get into the system.
I naively sat with the HR person as she introduced me to the plan. For one thing it is more expensive than I have been paying for health insurance. But she smilingly assured me that their provider network was quite large and as far as she knew, no one had been denied the right to see the doctor they wanted.
She encouraged me to ask around at work and see who employees might recommend as she plopped the telephone-sized book of providers on the desk in front of me. Sounded simple. Ask who people like, call the most recommended doctor, get an appointment. WRONG! What was I thinking?!! I hadn't been down this road in such a long time that I have forgotten the insanity involved.
I called the first choice name on my list. Even though they are listed as taking new patients, they weren't. In fact, the receptionist nearly laughed at me for thinking I could get in anytime soon. She suggested I call back every 3 months, and in a year or two there might be an opening, depending on a variety of factors, not the least of which was whether they got a replacement doctor who had just left the practice.
Next I went to the insurance company's website and clicked on "Find a Doctor" only to find out that I have to register as a user to get any information. I didn't have my new card on me, so I waited until the next day. I registered and clicked on the link. It asked me a series of questions that seemed almost too much. I selected the "only doctors accepting new patients" link, and got three pages of primary care providers who would accept new patients. I carefully cross referenced them with Google maps to see how far away from me these clinics were and began with the ones closest to me. Turns out neither the close clinics nor the far flung clinics would accept a new patient.
I mentioned to my sister that I was having a hard time finding a doctor, and she gave me the names of her doctors. Her primary doctor has relocated on the far side of the city and is not accepting. The doctors in the clinic where he used to be have all left the clinic, and the doctors now in that clinic are not accepting.
I called a few more names. Same story. I asked one receptionist why they were listed as taking new patients online when in fact they were not. She spieled off a load of reasons. Bottom line: the Rochester area is about 100 doctors short of being able to handle the patient load. People are moving out of the area, including doctors. She at least suggested I call the hospital referral line.
I dialed the number she gave me, only to discover that the number was no longer in use. I went online to the hospital I preferred and scrolled about. I finally found a referral number, and soon was speaking with a sweet young lady who gave me four doctor offices that were definitely taking new patients and were in fact fairly close to where I live. I thanked her profusely and called the first number. Not taking new patients. Same with the rest of the numbers she had given me.
Now I am not being picky. I will take any doctor, regardless of location or specialty, I just need to get someone to give me the needed referral to see the colorectal oncologist recommended by my Yale doctor. Then I realized that the doctor I am trying to see has privileges at Strong Memorial and the referring doctor PCP will need to be in that same hospital in order to give the needed referral. ARGHHH!!!
Time to turn it over to the Lord and let Him work it out. I quit for the day. On the next day, I began the process again. I call the hospital referral line and ask again. They take all the information again to put in their system, then give me a list of names. For each name she gives me, I tell her that I have already called them and they don't take new patients. She acts surprised. I assure her I am not joking.
She finds some new names. I write them down. I call them all. The very last name, the receptionist says YES! they are indeed taking new patients. She looks at her appointment calendar and mutters, "Gee, all the doctor has are new patient appointments for the next three weeks. Do you have a crisis situation?"
I tell her I am a rectal cancer survivor and I need a referral to an oncologist for follow up care. She apologizes and says the earliest appointment available is August 10 at 4 pm. I snap it up like a fish gasping for water. Then she rattles off a list of paperwork that I will have to submit before the appointment - including complete records from my last doctor, permission to blah blah blah. My mind is reeling. And I haven't even made an appointment for Drew yet!
They won't see you for an illness until you have had your initial assessment. Good thing I have the rest of the summer to set things up. Meanwhile, I called back the first clinic that I would prefer, and asked if they have a waiting list. They do not. But if I call in three years. . .
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Blackberries and a Piece of Pie
The path to work narrows just at the edge of the apartment's property to a skinny stretch between a man-made hill of dirt and weeds at the back of the firehouse and a fence around several satellite dishes. What I especially love about this section is that it is too difficult to mow, and the weeds and wildflowers grow with abandon. The sweet fragrance of honeysuckle assaults your senses only when you get right to the edge of the place. Queen Anne's lace, daisys, purple clover, Indian paintbrush and tall purple thistles intermingle with wild strawberries and thorny blackberry canes.
Just on the other side of this dirt path lies a paved sideroad not traveled by cars, a favorite place for police to monitor traffic flying by on Union Street. The road deadends in a little housing development we use as a shortcut to get to campus. It prevents us from having to walk on the side of roads where the traffic is heavy and unpredictable. Trees line the sides of the lanes providing welcome shade from the sun's afternoon blaze. Houses are small, embroidered with manicured lawns and decorated with tasteful wreaths, shutters, and awnings. It is the perfect picture of peace.
Today as I walked through my wild sanctuary, I inhaled deeply, appreciating anew the heady honeysuckle. Here and there a ripe blackberry winked at me, tantalizingly inviting me to pick and imbibe the sweet juice. I know better than to try. I can no longer eat anything with seeds. They just don't move through my system. Tempting as it was, I walked on by, proud of my will power, but not lingering to provide opportunity to fall into sin.
My first meeting of the day, my staff surprised me with a fresh piece of raspberry pie! Oh, it looked so delicious, shimmering there on the paper plate, peeking shyly out from its flaky crust. I knew if I ate it I would pay the price in pain and agony in short order. Yet I didn't wish to offend the eager faces around the conference table. What to do?
I have not told my staff about my health issues, preferring for a change to not be a constant a source of concern. So I delayed saying anything until the meeting was concluded. They munched away happily while I talked, laying out some strategies for the impending move to the new building. Good reason not to eat if you are talking. After a bit, we became engrossed in our plotting, the meeting running a tad long.
Finally I concluded our business and we stood, pushing back our chairs. I hesitated for a moment, looking longingly at the luscious piece of pie. Then I thanked them sincerely for thinking of me, but gently mentioned that I couldn't eat it because I can't have anything with seeds in it. They understood right away and began listing other foods they thought might be off limits for me - and were surprisingly accurate!
The culmination of our conversation was that they would be careful in planning eating and social activities to make sure there would be something I could handle on the menu. I was deeply touched by their concern and eagerness to help. And without knowing the whys. They just accepted it.
Not bad for a day's work. Resisted temptation twice, and gained support in setting up future scenarios. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Just on the other side of this dirt path lies a paved sideroad not traveled by cars, a favorite place for police to monitor traffic flying by on Union Street. The road deadends in a little housing development we use as a shortcut to get to campus. It prevents us from having to walk on the side of roads where the traffic is heavy and unpredictable. Trees line the sides of the lanes providing welcome shade from the sun's afternoon blaze. Houses are small, embroidered with manicured lawns and decorated with tasteful wreaths, shutters, and awnings. It is the perfect picture of peace.
Today as I walked through my wild sanctuary, I inhaled deeply, appreciating anew the heady honeysuckle. Here and there a ripe blackberry winked at me, tantalizingly inviting me to pick and imbibe the sweet juice. I know better than to try. I can no longer eat anything with seeds. They just don't move through my system. Tempting as it was, I walked on by, proud of my will power, but not lingering to provide opportunity to fall into sin.
My first meeting of the day, my staff surprised me with a fresh piece of raspberry pie! Oh, it looked so delicious, shimmering there on the paper plate, peeking shyly out from its flaky crust. I knew if I ate it I would pay the price in pain and agony in short order. Yet I didn't wish to offend the eager faces around the conference table. What to do?
I have not told my staff about my health issues, preferring for a change to not be a constant a source of concern. So I delayed saying anything until the meeting was concluded. They munched away happily while I talked, laying out some strategies for the impending move to the new building. Good reason not to eat if you are talking. After a bit, we became engrossed in our plotting, the meeting running a tad long.
Finally I concluded our business and we stood, pushing back our chairs. I hesitated for a moment, looking longingly at the luscious piece of pie. Then I thanked them sincerely for thinking of me, but gently mentioned that I couldn't eat it because I can't have anything with seeds in it. They understood right away and began listing other foods they thought might be off limits for me - and were surprisingly accurate!
The culmination of our conversation was that they would be careful in planning eating and social activities to make sure there would be something I could handle on the menu. I was deeply touched by their concern and eagerness to help. And without knowing the whys. They just accepted it.
Not bad for a day's work. Resisted temptation twice, and gained support in setting up future scenarios. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sparrow Near Defeat
Drew and I struggled to get out the door on time on a sultry Monday morning. The grass was loaded with dew, making it hard to negotiate in slippery sandals. My bag, filled with two bottles of water, my daytimer, various paperwork needing attention, my purse, and sundry other little things I would need throughout the day, weighed heavily on my shoulder. I promised myself to find an ergonomic backpack soon before I injured myself hauling things like a packmule.
Drew was fairly quiet, having just rolled out of bed. I am ruthless with him in the morning, trying to force him to maintain a normal school hour type of schedule. If I don't, he falls into sleeping until afternoon and staying up half the night. Easy habit to get into. Hard to discipline yourself out of. He agrees in theory, but practice is something else again.
Just outside our apartment building stands a mid-sized blue spruce tree. As I was passing its graceful boughs, I noticed a sparrow hovering hesitantly near the top of the tree, gingerly putting one claw and then the other on a skinny little branch. It looked like the needles were sharp and the poor little thing couldn't find a safe place to light. I stopped for a moment to watch the drama unfold.
The tiny bird backed off and tried a new approach to the same branch. Again, the claws danced lightly here and there trying to find a spot to land. Three times the little bird worked to find a resting place on the blue spruce tree. I wondered that it didn't just give up and fly to the nearby hardwood trees. Yet it kept trying.
Finally, the bird found its resting place and allowed the weight of its body to slowly relax onto the branch, its little feet firmly wrapped around the pithy center of the branch. Just when I thought the bird had accomplished his mission, the spindly branch bent under the weight and the little bird tumbled off into thin air where the flapping of wings began all over again.
Firmly drawn into the drama, I set my bag down to watch. It took a full ten minutes for the bird to at long last come to rest in the top of the blue spruce. In minutes, mosquitoes began to hover around the branch, and the clever bird flashed its beak this way and that, snapping up breakfast with no effort at all. I finally understood the persistence of its actions.
Meanwhile, Drew was a full three blocks ahead of me, and I was the one working to get where I needed to be. I wondered if the sparrow, who had not let the tree defeat its needs, was chuckling as I slip slided across the wet grass after my retreating son.
Drew was fairly quiet, having just rolled out of bed. I am ruthless with him in the morning, trying to force him to maintain a normal school hour type of schedule. If I don't, he falls into sleeping until afternoon and staying up half the night. Easy habit to get into. Hard to discipline yourself out of. He agrees in theory, but practice is something else again.
Just outside our apartment building stands a mid-sized blue spruce tree. As I was passing its graceful boughs, I noticed a sparrow hovering hesitantly near the top of the tree, gingerly putting one claw and then the other on a skinny little branch. It looked like the needles were sharp and the poor little thing couldn't find a safe place to light. I stopped for a moment to watch the drama unfold.
The tiny bird backed off and tried a new approach to the same branch. Again, the claws danced lightly here and there trying to find a spot to land. Three times the little bird worked to find a resting place on the blue spruce tree. I wondered that it didn't just give up and fly to the nearby hardwood trees. Yet it kept trying.
Finally, the bird found its resting place and allowed the weight of its body to slowly relax onto the branch, its little feet firmly wrapped around the pithy center of the branch. Just when I thought the bird had accomplished his mission, the spindly branch bent under the weight and the little bird tumbled off into thin air where the flapping of wings began all over again.
Firmly drawn into the drama, I set my bag down to watch. It took a full ten minutes for the bird to at long last come to rest in the top of the blue spruce. In minutes, mosquitoes began to hover around the branch, and the clever bird flashed its beak this way and that, snapping up breakfast with no effort at all. I finally understood the persistence of its actions.
Meanwhile, Drew was a full three blocks ahead of me, and I was the one working to get where I needed to be. I wondered if the sparrow, who had not let the tree defeat its needs, was chuckling as I slip slided across the wet grass after my retreating son.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Corn Hill Festival
Our chosen walking adventure for this weekend was the Corn Hill Festival. It doesn't have quite the appeal of the Lilac Festival, which could well be Drew's favorite festival of all time. It's about six of one, half dozen of the other since both festivals offer the work of local and interested artists, typical fair foods like fried dough, kettle corn, and cotton candy, all of which we indulged in this year, and blocks of walking in hopefully good weather.
Sunday afternoon was sunny with a gentle breeze. I vaguely remembered that they ran shuttle buses from the east end garage, so we drove downtown first to see if they still offered that service. Turns out they didn't, but it was great to see my old haunts - Eastman School of Music, where I worked for seven years as the Sound Recording Archivist, the downtown malls, the little eateries nearby many of ethnic persuasion - my first experience with Indian, Thai, African, Ethiopian and Greek foods- the Hochstein School of Music - it looked pretty much the same even though I have been told they did some major renovations to the interiors. Slowly the street names came drifting back through the fog of absence, and I got my bearings, remembering where to go and what streets to take.
We parked near Hochstein and walked a half dozen blocks to the festival. There was a surprising absence of sound - no screams from rides, no music, no blaring loudspeakers. Every corner had a policeman directing traffic, and little groups of people wandered toward us, heading home after their explorations were done. Some carried odd looking water sprinklers made of copper, others toted pictures or furniture. Most were arm in arm, chatting easily and smiling. Then at crest of the hill we little tents and booths set up along the sides of the streets, dwarfing the elegant old homes and filled to overflowing with all types of wares.
We wandered up one street and down another. My sister Mary used to live in the Corn Hill district, and I remember her complaining about the traffic and the crowds and how it impeded her travel to and from work. The price you pay for living in the cultural district I guess.
There was so much to see it was hard to take it all in. My strategy is to only stop where something catches my attention, otherwise we would be there for hours and hours. If I find something I am interested in, I ask for a card and explore websites after the fact. That cuts down on impulse buying.
Only rarely do I ever purchase something on the spot. For one thing, the prices are prohibitive. For another, things that seem fabulous at the moment often have less appeal on second look. We found tie dies, natural cotton clothes, hand spun wools and yarns, hand woven scarves, thousands of drawings, photographs, water colors, oils, jewelry of every imaginable size shape and design, clever ideas, home crafted you-name-its, stained glass everything, bowls, pottery, window decor, wreaths, plants, kites, leather purses, wooden carvings, picture frames made of many different substances - I could go on for some time.
It's mind boggling to think of the hours and hours of manpower that went into making all those things. And when you think about it, nothing we saw was a necessity of life. I can live very well without ever having any of those things, thank you very much. And yet how fascinating to see the creativity, the purposefulness, the thought and imagination that provided such rich variety.
It was a wonderful afternoon. What a great way to get some exercise. I brought home a dozen cards, and will eventually do some online looking. Who knows? Maybe I will even get something!
Sunday afternoon was sunny with a gentle breeze. I vaguely remembered that they ran shuttle buses from the east end garage, so we drove downtown first to see if they still offered that service. Turns out they didn't, but it was great to see my old haunts - Eastman School of Music, where I worked for seven years as the Sound Recording Archivist, the downtown malls, the little eateries nearby many of ethnic persuasion - my first experience with Indian, Thai, African, Ethiopian and Greek foods- the Hochstein School of Music - it looked pretty much the same even though I have been told they did some major renovations to the interiors. Slowly the street names came drifting back through the fog of absence, and I got my bearings, remembering where to go and what streets to take.
We parked near Hochstein and walked a half dozen blocks to the festival. There was a surprising absence of sound - no screams from rides, no music, no blaring loudspeakers. Every corner had a policeman directing traffic, and little groups of people wandered toward us, heading home after their explorations were done. Some carried odd looking water sprinklers made of copper, others toted pictures or furniture. Most were arm in arm, chatting easily and smiling. Then at crest of the hill we little tents and booths set up along the sides of the streets, dwarfing the elegant old homes and filled to overflowing with all types of wares.
We wandered up one street and down another. My sister Mary used to live in the Corn Hill district, and I remember her complaining about the traffic and the crowds and how it impeded her travel to and from work. The price you pay for living in the cultural district I guess.
There was so much to see it was hard to take it all in. My strategy is to only stop where something catches my attention, otherwise we would be there for hours and hours. If I find something I am interested in, I ask for a card and explore websites after the fact. That cuts down on impulse buying.
Only rarely do I ever purchase something on the spot. For one thing, the prices are prohibitive. For another, things that seem fabulous at the moment often have less appeal on second look. We found tie dies, natural cotton clothes, hand spun wools and yarns, hand woven scarves, thousands of drawings, photographs, water colors, oils, jewelry of every imaginable size shape and design, clever ideas, home crafted you-name-its, stained glass everything, bowls, pottery, window decor, wreaths, plants, kites, leather purses, wooden carvings, picture frames made of many different substances - I could go on for some time.
It's mind boggling to think of the hours and hours of manpower that went into making all those things. And when you think about it, nothing we saw was a necessity of life. I can live very well without ever having any of those things, thank you very much. And yet how fascinating to see the creativity, the purposefulness, the thought and imagination that provided such rich variety.
It was a wonderful afternoon. What a great way to get some exercise. I brought home a dozen cards, and will eventually do some online looking. Who knows? Maybe I will even get something!
Friday, July 13, 2007
Fireworks!
Every year, staff from the library take the summer student workers to Frontier Field to see a Red Wings game. They invite staff families to get tickets at a special price and come along as well. "What a great idea," I thought. "The boys like sports, and this way they can get to know my colleagues while having fun." So I bought the tickets even though (I am almost ashamed to admit this - it seems so unAmerican) I don't really care for baseball. I have been to football, basketball, hockey, volleyball, and soccer games galore on the high school, college, and professional levels. But never to a baseball game on any level. I have friends who are avid fans, but I just can't get into a game that seems so inactive.
Turns out the boys didn't really want to go. I had to ask them to come for my sake. Drew was rather put out about being made to go, but since he had no choice in the matter, he found himself standing in line with the rest of the group, waiting for the gates to open at 5:30 (which thanks to Roberts early Friday closing we were able to be first in line!).
It seemed rather like a horse race when the gates opened and we all streamed inside. We were handed complimentary blue baseball hats with the logo of the evening's sponsor on it (and the three of us got our picture taken for the corporate newsletter), and we ordered pizza and rootbeer for dinner. We had plenty of time to eat before the game began, and our seats were about the best in the house - right behind home plate and high enough up to see everything. The young man who was to sing the national anthem paced about nervously while the boy scout troup marched onto the field with the flag and various officials surrounded them. We all stood for the singing - he did a marvelous job - cheering afterwards while they introduced the starting lineup (oops - a bit of football lingo jumped in).
I think I figured out how baseball has been able to stay a competitive sport for event attendance. Every minute or so, there was a sideline activity to keep you entertained when the game got slow. They gave away tickets, prizes, had the mascot throw baseballs up into the bleachers (and numerous pop flies took the same route to some eager child's hands), played music, got everyone clapping or cheering, ran contests, vendors hawked wares - it almost felt like some medieval renaissance fair. Except for the loud announcer's voice.
The boys ended up having a good time, and really got into repeating the players names with just the right inflection, especially enjoying the name Tommy Watkins. Even when it began to rain, no one wanted to leave. I put up my umbrella, and the boys just got wet. Fortunately, the rain stopped before the end of the game, and we were able to stay for the fireworks. I guess Rochester felt bad about our missing the Fourth of July celebrations and wanted to give us another chance. They even added music with lyrics that matched the weather and the colors and the noise (as kids we used to call fireworks bing-bang-booms).
All in all a wonderful evening topped off by a stop at Wegmans for ice cream on the way home.
Perhaps I would consider doing that again!
Turns out the boys didn't really want to go. I had to ask them to come for my sake. Drew was rather put out about being made to go, but since he had no choice in the matter, he found himself standing in line with the rest of the group, waiting for the gates to open at 5:30 (which thanks to Roberts early Friday closing we were able to be first in line!).
It seemed rather like a horse race when the gates opened and we all streamed inside. We were handed complimentary blue baseball hats with the logo of the evening's sponsor on it (and the three of us got our picture taken for the corporate newsletter), and we ordered pizza and rootbeer for dinner. We had plenty of time to eat before the game began, and our seats were about the best in the house - right behind home plate and high enough up to see everything. The young man who was to sing the national anthem paced about nervously while the boy scout troup marched onto the field with the flag and various officials surrounded them. We all stood for the singing - he did a marvelous job - cheering afterwards while they introduced the starting lineup (oops - a bit of football lingo jumped in).
I think I figured out how baseball has been able to stay a competitive sport for event attendance. Every minute or so, there was a sideline activity to keep you entertained when the game got slow. They gave away tickets, prizes, had the mascot throw baseballs up into the bleachers (and numerous pop flies took the same route to some eager child's hands), played music, got everyone clapping or cheering, ran contests, vendors hawked wares - it almost felt like some medieval renaissance fair. Except for the loud announcer's voice.
The boys ended up having a good time, and really got into repeating the players names with just the right inflection, especially enjoying the name Tommy Watkins. Even when it began to rain, no one wanted to leave. I put up my umbrella, and the boys just got wet. Fortunately, the rain stopped before the end of the game, and we were able to stay for the fireworks. I guess Rochester felt bad about our missing the Fourth of July celebrations and wanted to give us another chance. They even added music with lyrics that matched the weather and the colors and the noise (as kids we used to call fireworks bing-bang-booms).
All in all a wonderful evening topped off by a stop at Wegmans for ice cream on the way home.
Perhaps I would consider doing that again!
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Jumping Jackets and Dead Rabbits
Every morning I drag Drew out of bed at 7am (and I do mean drag) and he walks me to work. It takes us about a half hour to wander over to campus through the little housing development next to our apartment complex. Drew brings his scooter and sometimes zooms ahead, especially when there is a bit of downhill to navigate. It is our special time to chat about nothing and everything, and some days the conversation is unique, other days ordinary.
Cloaked in the magic garb of morning, these little jaunts sometimes reward us with dazzling sunrise colors, unexpected glimpses of wildlife, and always glorious birdsong. Today we noticed how many little spiderwebs were outlined on the grass by the morning dew. As we walked along talking about this and that, I flipped my bag from one shoulder to the other to distribute the weight better, not paying much attention to the jacket draped across the top of my bag.
It wasn't until I got to the library that I noticed my jacket was no longer with my bag. I asked Drew to see if he could find it on his way home. He puttered on the computer for a few minutes, then headed back, retracing out path on the lookout for my black jacket. As he was passing Pearce Memorial Church, one of the women working in their summer camp program warned him that there was an almost dead bunny nearby that he should avoid as it was flopping about in the throes of death. I think it spooked Drew a bit.
He was almost home when he spotted something black on the ground near our building. He ambled over to the place, then reached down to pick it up when suddenly it jumped and yowled! Drew jumped back and screamed. What he thought was my jacket turned out to be a black cat who was just as surprised as Drew at the mixup.
Drew scrambled inside the house, his heart pounding. From his bedroom window, he spotted something else black on the ground. Cautiously, he went out and poked it with a stick. Sure enough, it was my jacket, safe and sound. He was kind enough to pick it up and bring it in the house for me. Thank goodness he was able to overcome dying rabbits and jumping jackets, and recover my jacket for wearing another day.
Cloaked in the magic garb of morning, these little jaunts sometimes reward us with dazzling sunrise colors, unexpected glimpses of wildlife, and always glorious birdsong. Today we noticed how many little spiderwebs were outlined on the grass by the morning dew. As we walked along talking about this and that, I flipped my bag from one shoulder to the other to distribute the weight better, not paying much attention to the jacket draped across the top of my bag.
It wasn't until I got to the library that I noticed my jacket was no longer with my bag. I asked Drew to see if he could find it on his way home. He puttered on the computer for a few minutes, then headed back, retracing out path on the lookout for my black jacket. As he was passing Pearce Memorial Church, one of the women working in their summer camp program warned him that there was an almost dead bunny nearby that he should avoid as it was flopping about in the throes of death. I think it spooked Drew a bit.
He was almost home when he spotted something black on the ground near our building. He ambled over to the place, then reached down to pick it up when suddenly it jumped and yowled! Drew jumped back and screamed. What he thought was my jacket turned out to be a black cat who was just as surprised as Drew at the mixup.
Drew scrambled inside the house, his heart pounding. From his bedroom window, he spotted something else black on the ground. Cautiously, he went out and poked it with a stick. Sure enough, it was my jacket, safe and sound. He was kind enough to pick it up and bring it in the house for me. Thank goodness he was able to overcome dying rabbits and jumping jackets, and recover my jacket for wearing another day.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Sheila
I have a bushy ivy plant named Sheila. I was worried that Sheila would have a hard time surviving the move. I made sure she wouldn't be squished in the car on our two day journey, to the point of making the boys take less stuff with us and put more things on the truck. I haven't had Sheila for a long time - less than a year. She was already pretty good sized when I bought her.
Why do I call her Sheila? My boys ask me that from time to time. I tell them about working at Delta Lake as a counselor when I was in college. The first week we were asked to volunteer our time because the campers were mentally handicapped children from poor families who could not afford to pay for a week of camp. We had one counselor per camper, and the first year, I had a young girl named Sheila. Sheila was mildly retarded, and understood most things. Concrete stuff like time and money gave her a hard time. And she couldn't be left alone. But she had a delicious curiosity about everything, and loved to explore, not easy for her since her eyes were crossed and I think she had double vision.
It was all I could do to keep up with her. She would be standing right next to me, and I would turn my head for an instant, just long enough for a butterfly to flutter by and off she would go, laughing and chasing until something else caught her attention and took her in another direction. If you called her name, trying to get her attention, her only response was to say the word Shelia over and over, but not look at you or stop her running away or even stand still!
The other counselors thought it was funny to pretend to be Sheila, and they would run around waving their arms crying Sheila, Sheila, Sheila. Sheila thought that was funny and would clap and laugh. She was so full of life and love and energy and joy. Though she wore me out, I liked her and learned a lot about appreciating life from her.
One of the things a cancer compatriot told me was that when you can keep a plant alive, its a good sign that you are recovering emotionally. I had tried a couple of times to have plants in Illinois after the cancer was behind me, but invariably after some length of time, the stupid thing would die (of course, it was because I had forgotten to water it - too depressed, too distracted, too tired - all the too reasons you have nothing left over to nurture others).
It wasn't until I bought the ivy plant that I found I was ready to nurture something and actually had the energy, interest, and vitality to maintain care for a plant. And what better name for a new addition to my family for whom I care than the name of someone so filled with the joy of life, someone whose name conjures up happy summer days and good friends! Granted, I got a plant that was pretty robust yet low maintenance to begin with, but I was so pleased that even when I had to be out of town for conferences and graduate work, I remembered to make sure Sheila got the care she needed. She has flourished, timidly sending out little shoots. I even snipped a cutting from her and started a daughter plant named Cinderella (out of the ashes. . . ) whom I gave to one of the girls in the complex office when she moved into a new house.
This morning I slipped Sheila a bit of water and noticed that one short week after settling in, she is beginning to grow lots of new leaves! In fact she seems to be doing better in Rochester than she did in Connecticut. I am hoping its a sign that the boys will also prosper here and show new growth - and indeed, I think they are beginning to already.
Why do I call her Sheila? My boys ask me that from time to time. I tell them about working at Delta Lake as a counselor when I was in college. The first week we were asked to volunteer our time because the campers were mentally handicapped children from poor families who could not afford to pay for a week of camp. We had one counselor per camper, and the first year, I had a young girl named Sheila. Sheila was mildly retarded, and understood most things. Concrete stuff like time and money gave her a hard time. And she couldn't be left alone. But she had a delicious curiosity about everything, and loved to explore, not easy for her since her eyes were crossed and I think she had double vision.
It was all I could do to keep up with her. She would be standing right next to me, and I would turn my head for an instant, just long enough for a butterfly to flutter by and off she would go, laughing and chasing until something else caught her attention and took her in another direction. If you called her name, trying to get her attention, her only response was to say the word Shelia over and over, but not look at you or stop her running away or even stand still!
The other counselors thought it was funny to pretend to be Sheila, and they would run around waving their arms crying Sheila, Sheila, Sheila. Sheila thought that was funny and would clap and laugh. She was so full of life and love and energy and joy. Though she wore me out, I liked her and learned a lot about appreciating life from her.
One of the things a cancer compatriot told me was that when you can keep a plant alive, its a good sign that you are recovering emotionally. I had tried a couple of times to have plants in Illinois after the cancer was behind me, but invariably after some length of time, the stupid thing would die (of course, it was because I had forgotten to water it - too depressed, too distracted, too tired - all the too reasons you have nothing left over to nurture others).
It wasn't until I bought the ivy plant that I found I was ready to nurture something and actually had the energy, interest, and vitality to maintain care for a plant. And what better name for a new addition to my family for whom I care than the name of someone so filled with the joy of life, someone whose name conjures up happy summer days and good friends! Granted, I got a plant that was pretty robust yet low maintenance to begin with, but I was so pleased that even when I had to be out of town for conferences and graduate work, I remembered to make sure Sheila got the care she needed. She has flourished, timidly sending out little shoots. I even snipped a cutting from her and started a daughter plant named Cinderella (out of the ashes. . . ) whom I gave to one of the girls in the complex office when she moved into a new house.
This morning I slipped Sheila a bit of water and noticed that one short week after settling in, she is beginning to grow lots of new leaves! In fact she seems to be doing better in Rochester than she did in Connecticut. I am hoping its a sign that the boys will also prosper here and show new growth - and indeed, I think they are beginning to already.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Hamlin Beach
I am determined to keep up my program of getting into shape and improving my fitness. Part of my strategy is to find places to walk on the weekends, especially while the weather is good. So after church on Sunday, I had told the boys we would go to a state park on Lake Ontario called Hamlin Beach and rediscover their hiking trails and nature center.
My sister invited us to go to lunch with several couples from church after the service, and we decided to do that first. Good thing we did since it started to rain hard when we got to the restaurant and poured the whole time we ate and chatted.
Fortunately, as soon as we were ready to leave it stopped raining, and off we went to explore the beach. Part of the trails are in a marshy area with lots of overhanging trees, and we started there. We found the little tower where you used to be able to gaze out over the marsh and watch the birds flit about. Now the trees are grown and block the view. We will have to wait for fall to be able to see anything there.
We walked back to the beach area, sauntering out onto the pier and put a quarter in the binoculars to see if we could see the other side (which would be Canada actually). Of course, the lake is way too gigantic for that, but we watched boats too far out to see with the naked eye. There were people fishing - or at least throwing their lines out into the water. I suspect it was too hot and too late in the afternoon for any decent self respecting fish to be thinking of food.
When we got to the designated swimming areas, we took off our sneakers and walked along the edge of the shore, feeling the ocean tide sink us into the murky sand, the cold refreshing water caress our ankles, ducking the yacking sea gulls, tiptoeing past clumps of seaweed, edging around kids plopped down on the water's edge building sand castles, avoiding the splash of boys running pell-mell down the sand into the water, watching fat old men bob up and down with the water's wake, feeling the warm wind against our cheeks, smelling the sizzle of hamburgs grilling, hearing the laughter of volleyball players diving for the just-out-of-reach serves.
It was glorious! We wandered about for several hours, finally working our way beyond the beach and away from the massive expanse of blue to the campground on the other side where the tents and RVs, leftover from the crowded Fourth of July, held the line against the elements while occupants lazed in front of smoky campfires. We paused briefly at the laundromat for a cold drink, then wearily made our way back to the car, ready to go home and rest our weary feet.
One adventure down and countless more to embrace before the hoary breath of winter forces us inside to huddle restlessly before our fireplaces.
My sister invited us to go to lunch with several couples from church after the service, and we decided to do that first. Good thing we did since it started to rain hard when we got to the restaurant and poured the whole time we ate and chatted.
Fortunately, as soon as we were ready to leave it stopped raining, and off we went to explore the beach. Part of the trails are in a marshy area with lots of overhanging trees, and we started there. We found the little tower where you used to be able to gaze out over the marsh and watch the birds flit about. Now the trees are grown and block the view. We will have to wait for fall to be able to see anything there.
We walked back to the beach area, sauntering out onto the pier and put a quarter in the binoculars to see if we could see the other side (which would be Canada actually). Of course, the lake is way too gigantic for that, but we watched boats too far out to see with the naked eye. There were people fishing - or at least throwing their lines out into the water. I suspect it was too hot and too late in the afternoon for any decent self respecting fish to be thinking of food.
When we got to the designated swimming areas, we took off our sneakers and walked along the edge of the shore, feeling the ocean tide sink us into the murky sand, the cold refreshing water caress our ankles, ducking the yacking sea gulls, tiptoeing past clumps of seaweed, edging around kids plopped down on the water's edge building sand castles, avoiding the splash of boys running pell-mell down the sand into the water, watching fat old men bob up and down with the water's wake, feeling the warm wind against our cheeks, smelling the sizzle of hamburgs grilling, hearing the laughter of volleyball players diving for the just-out-of-reach serves.
It was glorious! We wandered about for several hours, finally working our way beyond the beach and away from the massive expanse of blue to the campground on the other side where the tents and RVs, leftover from the crowded Fourth of July, held the line against the elements while occupants lazed in front of smoky campfires. We paused briefly at the laundromat for a cold drink, then wearily made our way back to the car, ready to go home and rest our weary feet.
One adventure down and countless more to embrace before the hoary breath of winter forces us inside to huddle restlessly before our fireplaces.
Friday, July 6, 2007
A Voice Crying
Can you believe that Roberts Wesleyan College closes at 3:30 on Fridays and everyone gets to go home early?! Its true! Every Friday all summer long! I finally had time to shop for all those elusive little things you suddenly find yourself in need of when you move into a new place - you know, shower curtains, towel racks, waste baskets, aluminum foil. . .
The boys and I gleefully headed out, stopping first at the credit union so I could reopen an account there, then the boys begged to shop at Wegmans, their absolute favorite grocery store in the world. Invariably wherever I am, from Illinois to Wisconsin to Connecticut, if I happen to mention Wegmans, there will be someone who will sigh, "O, Wegmans! I love Wegmans!" What fun we had gazing at all the wonderful things you could buy if you could afford them. How tired the boys got hearing me say, "Not today. Later when I have more money."
Afterward, we headed for Marketplace Mall, wandering about locating shelf liner here, a shower curtain there, remarking over some little gadget, speculating about whether that color curtain would look good in the living room. After lots of wandering, it was getting late, and we decided to head out. We had parked near JC Penneys, and I needed to make a trip to the bathroom before leaving. I entered the Ladies Room foyer, thinking about what a good day it had been and how nice it was to be able to settle in. I no sooner got into a stall than I suddenly heard someone burst into tears and start crying HARD.
"What in the world!" I thought. "Did someone get hurt?" Before I could say anything, someone else came in the Ladies Room, and immediately asked what was wrong. The young lady answered, "Nothing, really. I'll be OK. Really. I'm Fine."
"Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it?" the other voice asked.
"No. No. I'm fine." Crying voice answered. After a few minutes, the other voice left, and crying voice resumed bawling with such passion, I was worried. Now she was talking to herself. Or to God. Or to someone, I'm not sure who.
"It's not like I'm ungrateful. I've just never been to a funeral before. And of all people, this one. Pull yourself together. Get a grip. Stop this. You can do it." She began breathing frantically in and out so fast I was sure she would pass out. More conversation. "Stop crying." Loud bawling pursued. "Stop. Stop. Stop. Get a grip. You can do it. You can do it." More frantic crying. I wondered who had died. Her mother? Her closest friend?
I felt guilty standing there in a stall obviously unbeknownst to her. But I didn't want to intrude on her time of grief either. So I just stayed still, waiting for the storm to pass, or the opportunity to speak without frightening her. I had no idea what she even looked like. For about twenty minutes, she carried on trying to will herself to quit and utterly unable to stop.
Life can be painful, especially if you have no one to turn to in your time of grief, especially if you are young and this is your first deep wound. I began praying for her, whatever the problem might be, that God would minister to her peace and strength. She finally told herself that she just had to get her hair finished (the salon has a private door into the ladies room) or she wouldn't be presentable, did about a hundred more deep breaths, and exited.
A second later, she re-entered before I had time to move, cried for another five minutes and exited again. I waited. Sure enough, once more she came back in, cried, told herself to stop a dozen times, then went out again. Slowly I came out of the stall.
Whew! Poor woman. I hoped she would find peace and be able to get through whatever it was she was facing. I realized how fortunate I have been to have gone more gently through life's hard things. Twice I have experienced the inexplicable peace of God in the midst of a terrible situation - once the night my son died, and once the day of my cancer surgery. It is curious to be in the midst of a crisis, yet find yourself calm without the intervention of any drugs.
It is not something you do yourself. Often people tell me I am strong. Truth is, I am just like everyone else. Inside, I have the same fears, the same feelings as everyone else. But God touches you, and you find the fear is gone. And with the fear, the sting and the pain. I've tried to think of how to describe it, but I cannot. I only know I am fortunate to have been touched by God's strength in those horrible moments when life tears you apart. I only wish I could have told the voice crying in the bathroom. I hope she finds God's peace, whatever her difficulty.
The boys and I gleefully headed out, stopping first at the credit union so I could reopen an account there, then the boys begged to shop at Wegmans, their absolute favorite grocery store in the world. Invariably wherever I am, from Illinois to Wisconsin to Connecticut, if I happen to mention Wegmans, there will be someone who will sigh, "O, Wegmans! I love Wegmans!" What fun we had gazing at all the wonderful things you could buy if you could afford them. How tired the boys got hearing me say, "Not today. Later when I have more money."
Afterward, we headed for Marketplace Mall, wandering about locating shelf liner here, a shower curtain there, remarking over some little gadget, speculating about whether that color curtain would look good in the living room. After lots of wandering, it was getting late, and we decided to head out. We had parked near JC Penneys, and I needed to make a trip to the bathroom before leaving. I entered the Ladies Room foyer, thinking about what a good day it had been and how nice it was to be able to settle in. I no sooner got into a stall than I suddenly heard someone burst into tears and start crying HARD.
"What in the world!" I thought. "Did someone get hurt?" Before I could say anything, someone else came in the Ladies Room, and immediately asked what was wrong. The young lady answered, "Nothing, really. I'll be OK. Really. I'm Fine."
"Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it?" the other voice asked.
"No. No. I'm fine." Crying voice answered. After a few minutes, the other voice left, and crying voice resumed bawling with such passion, I was worried. Now she was talking to herself. Or to God. Or to someone, I'm not sure who.
"It's not like I'm ungrateful. I've just never been to a funeral before. And of all people, this one. Pull yourself together. Get a grip. Stop this. You can do it." She began breathing frantically in and out so fast I was sure she would pass out. More conversation. "Stop crying." Loud bawling pursued. "Stop. Stop. Stop. Get a grip. You can do it. You can do it." More frantic crying. I wondered who had died. Her mother? Her closest friend?
I felt guilty standing there in a stall obviously unbeknownst to her. But I didn't want to intrude on her time of grief either. So I just stayed still, waiting for the storm to pass, or the opportunity to speak without frightening her. I had no idea what she even looked like. For about twenty minutes, she carried on trying to will herself to quit and utterly unable to stop.
Life can be painful, especially if you have no one to turn to in your time of grief, especially if you are young and this is your first deep wound. I began praying for her, whatever the problem might be, that God would minister to her peace and strength. She finally told herself that she just had to get her hair finished (the salon has a private door into the ladies room) or she wouldn't be presentable, did about a hundred more deep breaths, and exited.
A second later, she re-entered before I had time to move, cried for another five minutes and exited again. I waited. Sure enough, once more she came back in, cried, told herself to stop a dozen times, then went out again. Slowly I came out of the stall.
Whew! Poor woman. I hoped she would find peace and be able to get through whatever it was she was facing. I realized how fortunate I have been to have gone more gently through life's hard things. Twice I have experienced the inexplicable peace of God in the midst of a terrible situation - once the night my son died, and once the day of my cancer surgery. It is curious to be in the midst of a crisis, yet find yourself calm without the intervention of any drugs.
It is not something you do yourself. Often people tell me I am strong. Truth is, I am just like everyone else. Inside, I have the same fears, the same feelings as everyone else. But God touches you, and you find the fear is gone. And with the fear, the sting and the pain. I've tried to think of how to describe it, but I cannot. I only know I am fortunate to have been touched by God's strength in those horrible moments when life tears you apart. I only wish I could have told the voice crying in the bathroom. I hope she finds God's peace, whatever her difficulty.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
New Building
I got a tour of the new building! A group of us from the Library and Learning Center went over at 4 to get hard hats from the construction trailer, and Rich Greer, the site manager, unlocked the door and took us in.
There was yellow caution tape where walls were painted, and stacks of shelving laying about, but how exciting it was to see the reality of what I have been hearing about. I am struck by how homey and comfortable the place is already - large windows with great views, a double fireplace, interior views that allow you to feel the spaciousness of the architecture. Now the conversations about where things will be make much more sense.
We still have much to do before the move in at the end of the month. Staff here have been weeding, boxing, redirecting, thinking, planning for months. Its still hard to think of all the things we will need to settle once we move. Great times though. I can't wait for the company that will move the collection to start. That's what will make this seem real.
Here are a few links that will give you a sense of what's coming!
Pictures
http://rwc.edu/Development/Library/
Live Cam
http://libcam.roberts.edu/home/homeJ.html
Promo - but gives excellent and very accurate idea of how the library looks - note the fireplace in the cafe and grad study areas!
http://www.roberts.edu/development/library/?page_id=5
There was yellow caution tape where walls were painted, and stacks of shelving laying about, but how exciting it was to see the reality of what I have been hearing about. I am struck by how homey and comfortable the place is already - large windows with great views, a double fireplace, interior views that allow you to feel the spaciousness of the architecture. Now the conversations about where things will be make much more sense.
We still have much to do before the move in at the end of the month. Staff here have been weeding, boxing, redirecting, thinking, planning for months. Its still hard to think of all the things we will need to settle once we move. Great times though. I can't wait for the company that will move the collection to start. That's what will make this seem real.
Here are a few links that will give you a sense of what's coming!
Pictures
http://rwc.edu/Development/Library/
Live Cam
http://libcam.roberts.edu/home/homeJ.html
Promo - but gives excellent and very accurate idea of how the library looks - note the fireplace in the cafe and grad study areas!
http://www.roberts.edu/development/library/?page_id=5
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
July 4th
A day of celebration. A day of joy, picnics, fireworks. A day of unpacking - wait! How did that get in there? Really, one should take full advantage of a holiday and do special things. But this year turned out to be very quiet and stay at home-y. Not that I hadn't planned to go see fireworks and eat picnic foods. There certainly were many opportunities to do that. But with the rain, and the dozens of yet unpacked boxes in the apartment, I ended up just puttering about and working on getting things settled.
How fortuitous that in the middle of my first week at Roberts I had a full day to relax, take care of things at home, and adjust to new schedules and patterns. Besides, its not like we have had an irrevocable family tradition of going to the same place every July Fourth and doing the same highly anticipated activities. It has usually been a celebrate-wherever-you-are holiday. If you could manage to participate in a picnic, with or without swimming and boating, eat some sweet corn (which I can't do now anyways) and watermelon, see a few fireworks wherever the local place was offering them, then it was a banner year. If not, then a quiet meal of hot dogs and hamburgs at home with family, then watch the Boston pops on TV was a pretty good substitute.
I recall one year when my boys were fairly young and we were with my parents for some reason. We went to West Mountain (normally a ski resort) to watch the fireworks. I hadn't been to a live show for a number of years, and the weather, though a bit chill, was comfortable enough. We sat looking up the mountain at the brilliant colors high in the sky above us. The event was well attended and we shared oohs and aahhs with our fellow patriots sprawled on blankets and in lawn chairs about us.
When I was a kid, we would walk as a family over to Knox Jr High School on South Perry Street in Johnstown, NY (yes, its still there and thriving for those of you who think institutions from the dark ages are long gone) where they set up their fireworks near the new athletic field. We would sit on the small banked hills near the bleachers to watch the noisy displays play out against the black sky. I think the entire town came to that event - certainly I knew most of the people sitting nearby, and it was back in the day when kids in the elementary grades could walk around by themselves and not worry about being accosted. Sometimes my friends and I would wander about, dodging the cotton candy vendors and laughing at the little kids who were scared by the noise.
So I guess that missing the Rochester fireworks our first year back was OK. I didn't even watch the Boston pops. But friends and family called to wish me a happy fourth, that and made the day special. Connections. I am happy that despite living far from many friends, I can still connect via phone, email, and the occasional visit. So happy fourth, perhaps next year we will do it up with more of a bang.
I recall one year when my boys were fairly young and we were with my parents for some reason. We went to West Mountain (normally a ski resort) to watch the fireworks. I hadn't been to a live show for a number of years, and the weather, though a bit chill, was comfortable enough. We sat looking up the mountain at the brilliant colors high in the sky above us. The event was well attended and we shared oohs and aahhs with our fellow patriots sprawled on blankets and in lawn chairs about us.
When I was a kid, we would walk as a family over to Knox Jr High School on South Perry Street in Johnstown, NY (yes, its still there and thriving for those of you who think institutions from the dark ages are long gone) where they set up their fireworks near the new athletic field. We would sit on the small banked hills near the bleachers to watch the noisy displays play out against the black sky. I think the entire town came to that event - certainly I knew most of the people sitting nearby, and it was back in the day when kids in the elementary grades could walk around by themselves and not worry about being accosted. Sometimes my friends and I would wander about, dodging the cotton candy vendors and laughing at the little kids who were scared by the noise.
So I guess that missing the Rochester fireworks our first year back was OK. I didn't even watch the Boston pops. But friends and family called to wish me a happy fourth, that and made the day special. Connections. I am happy that despite living far from many friends, I can still connect via phone, email, and the occasional visit. So happy fourth, perhaps next year we will do it up with more of a bang.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Yaddo
Sunday morning 5:30am. I have friends that tell me such times do not exist on their clocks. Nothing before at least noon (it often seems that way with my kids too). I woke at the sound of my younger brother Jim getting ready to go to work at Hannaford groceries. I knew I had to get an early start myself in order to get to Rochester to pick up the key to our apartment before the movers arrived. We had a noon appointment preceded by a four hour drive, so I had told the boys, who had spent the night with their father, to be up and ready to go by no later than eight. That meant I needed to leave Mom's by 7, so I had thought to get up by 6:30.
But it was no good. I was awake, and loathe to lay abed a whole hour wasting time. I decided I would tiptoe out of the house and maybe find a quiet spot on the way for a time of meditation and prayer. As I left my parents' picturesque A-frame, I could just see the lake glinting in the early morning sun down the mountain. The previous evening there had been a tree blocking the road from the Glens Falls side of Bell Mountain, so I headed down the Lake George side.
As I drove along, I tried to think where I might pull over to read a bit of Scripture and pray. After all, it was Sunday, and I would have no chance to attend church, much less spend any time with the good Lord. "Lord," I prayed. "Show me where to go - some special place where I can meet with You." Suddenly I remembered Yaddo. It was perfect! And it was just off the Northway close to exit 14.
Yaddo is an artist retreat, a place where poets, authors, painters and artists of all kinds come to meet with their muse. Notable people have stayed there in the past (see http://www.yaddo.org/ ). Just outside the private areas there is a riotous rose garden surrounded by reflecting pools and marble statues. Surely early on a Sunday it would be all but deserted.
I pulled into the shaded drive and back into the silent woods away from the highway. I nosed the car over a narrow bridge, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires. After parking, I followed the signs to the rose garden, though I could just as well have followed my nose - the heady fragrance of roses met me at every turn. I paused at the first fountain, peering into the shallow depths to see if they still kept coy, but there were none there. No water lilies either. No matter.
I could see the splashes of color ahead where the formal gardens were, and I hurried toward them expectantly. They were in full bloom, branches bowed down to the ground, all colors and sizes in neat and orderly rows, nodding gently in the early morning sun as if waiting for me.
I wandered slowly on the grassy paths, the dew painting my toes chilly with delight, stopping to admire the delicate blush of the champaign roses, burying my face in the rose bushes on the far side. Here in the direct center was the second pool, filled with water lilies and coy who rose to meet my shadow, grouping the surface for handouts that I could not give.
Here and there a spiderweb was pearled with tiny dots of water, betraying the spinner's hideout. At the top of the garden area is a long arched trellis wired with select roses, each carefully named and pruned to best effect. I made my way to the north side of the bower and gazed down the manicured length, my eyes finally lighting on the bench in the very heart of beauty.
But alas! The bench was occupied by a pipe smoking gentleman in what I guessed might be his early sixties. His mane of hair was tinged a respectable gray and his neck was swathed in a maroon silk scarf. He was engaged in reading a book, seemingly unaware of his unusual surroundings.
For a moment, I thought perhaps he was one of the artists come for early morning inspiration, perhaps writing a novel himself. The tomb he held in his hand was leatherbound and voluminous. I hesitated, not wanting to disturb or wander where I was unwelcome. But he glanced up and halloed at me so I responded, wandering slowly toward him, stopping to admire the various roses on each side and over my head.
He laughed a bit and said, "You won't find much fragrance in these beauties. These are the hybrids, all fragrance genetically removed in favor of vibrant color. Bah - I am disgusted with them. Now if you really want to experience a rose, take a hike back behind here in the pine trees. There are some vagrant roses who have escaped the gardener's ploys. There you will find extraordinary rose." He waved over his shoulder toward a patch of evergreens.
"Thank you, I will," I replied. We chatted for a few moments. Turns out he comes to Yaddo every Sunday morning to read poetry. He feels it is the only safe place for a construction worker like himself to indulge such a fetish. He has been coming for over thirty years. Said he rarely ever sees anyone else.
I followed his direction and did indeed discover an extraordinary rose - one I would not have found without his assistance. There was a bench just yards away where I sat with my pocket new testament, reading from Psalms the equally fragrant words of David about love, life, trouble and deliverance. I smiled at where God had decided to meet me. What a wonderful time we had.
Too soon it was time to leave. I was almost afraid I had delayed too long. On my way to the car, I found a perfect rose that had been neatly severed from its bush - a delicate pink. I picked it up, and on the way out of town to meet my destiny in Rochester, I lay the perfect rose on Michael's grave, just to let him know I have not forgotten him, just to share with him a moment of beauty and joy.
But it was no good. I was awake, and loathe to lay abed a whole hour wasting time. I decided I would tiptoe out of the house and maybe find a quiet spot on the way for a time of meditation and prayer. As I left my parents' picturesque A-frame, I could just see the lake glinting in the early morning sun down the mountain. The previous evening there had been a tree blocking the road from the Glens Falls side of Bell Mountain, so I headed down the Lake George side.
As I drove along, I tried to think where I might pull over to read a bit of Scripture and pray. After all, it was Sunday, and I would have no chance to attend church, much less spend any time with the good Lord. "Lord," I prayed. "Show me where to go - some special place where I can meet with You." Suddenly I remembered Yaddo. It was perfect! And it was just off the Northway close to exit 14.
Yaddo is an artist retreat, a place where poets, authors, painters and artists of all kinds come to meet with their muse. Notable people have stayed there in the past (see http://www.yaddo.org/ ). Just outside the private areas there is a riotous rose garden surrounded by reflecting pools and marble statues. Surely early on a Sunday it would be all but deserted.
I pulled into the shaded drive and back into the silent woods away from the highway. I nosed the car over a narrow bridge, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires. After parking, I followed the signs to the rose garden, though I could just as well have followed my nose - the heady fragrance of roses met me at every turn. I paused at the first fountain, peering into the shallow depths to see if they still kept coy, but there were none there. No water lilies either. No matter.
I could see the splashes of color ahead where the formal gardens were, and I hurried toward them expectantly. They were in full bloom, branches bowed down to the ground, all colors and sizes in neat and orderly rows, nodding gently in the early morning sun as if waiting for me.
I wandered slowly on the grassy paths, the dew painting my toes chilly with delight, stopping to admire the delicate blush of the champaign roses, burying my face in the rose bushes on the far side. Here in the direct center was the second pool, filled with water lilies and coy who rose to meet my shadow, grouping the surface for handouts that I could not give.
Here and there a spiderweb was pearled with tiny dots of water, betraying the spinner's hideout. At the top of the garden area is a long arched trellis wired with select roses, each carefully named and pruned to best effect. I made my way to the north side of the bower and gazed down the manicured length, my eyes finally lighting on the bench in the very heart of beauty.
But alas! The bench was occupied by a pipe smoking gentleman in what I guessed might be his early sixties. His mane of hair was tinged a respectable gray and his neck was swathed in a maroon silk scarf. He was engaged in reading a book, seemingly unaware of his unusual surroundings.
For a moment, I thought perhaps he was one of the artists come for early morning inspiration, perhaps writing a novel himself. The tomb he held in his hand was leatherbound and voluminous. I hesitated, not wanting to disturb or wander where I was unwelcome. But he glanced up and halloed at me so I responded, wandering slowly toward him, stopping to admire the various roses on each side and over my head.
He laughed a bit and said, "You won't find much fragrance in these beauties. These are the hybrids, all fragrance genetically removed in favor of vibrant color. Bah - I am disgusted with them. Now if you really want to experience a rose, take a hike back behind here in the pine trees. There are some vagrant roses who have escaped the gardener's ploys. There you will find extraordinary rose." He waved over his shoulder toward a patch of evergreens.
"Thank you, I will," I replied. We chatted for a few moments. Turns out he comes to Yaddo every Sunday morning to read poetry. He feels it is the only safe place for a construction worker like himself to indulge such a fetish. He has been coming for over thirty years. Said he rarely ever sees anyone else.
I followed his direction and did indeed discover an extraordinary rose - one I would not have found without his assistance. There was a bench just yards away where I sat with my pocket new testament, reading from Psalms the equally fragrant words of David about love, life, trouble and deliverance. I smiled at where God had decided to meet me. What a wonderful time we had.
Too soon it was time to leave. I was almost afraid I had delayed too long. On my way to the car, I found a perfect rose that had been neatly severed from its bush - a delicate pink. I picked it up, and on the way out of town to meet my destiny in Rochester, I lay the perfect rose on Michael's grave, just to let him know I have not forgotten him, just to share with him a moment of beauty and joy.
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