Surprise Birthday

I don't often draw a Sunday shift, but there are times when it is necessary. Today was my day for the 2 to 6 shift. The Library Director had elected to take the 6 to 10pm shift, this precursor day to the semester's beginning when students would be milling about, checking email, reconnecting with friends, scoping out changes.

It was busier than I expected, a number of grad students already well into their research. As I demonstrated databases and provided directions to various resources, my tummy tingled with anticipation. Our Operations Manager had decided to spring a surprise birthday party on our director, and I knew that after my shift people would be sneaking into the building with cake and drinks and a gift.

It was easy enough for me to mumble an excuse about staying awhile to get some stuff done, but others had to take a circuitous route in the back door, up the stairs, down the elevator and sneak into the staff break room while the director was not looking in their direction. At one point, sequestered in my office, I got a call from the Curriculum Lab. How odd! No one was in that area that I knew of.

Two staff members had nearly been spotted getting off the elevator. They quickly closed the door and beat it back upstairs, hiding out and calling me to run interference while they snuck back down. At last everyone had gathered in the staff room, and I got to execute the subterfuge to get the director into the staff room. I just said there was something odd going on in the staff room and could he please come and take a look. I stood back and indicated that he should go first.

The lights were off, but the candles on the cake were lit. As soon as he opened the door, everyone yelled "surprise!" And indeed, he was. We had a good laugh and everyone recounted their escapade about how they snuck in. The lemon cake was delicious and the gift appreciated. I don't know who had a better time - the director or the plotters who carried it off. It was fun for sure.

Sleepin' In

I wake with a start and grab my alarm clock. 6:00 am! Already past my usual rising time. Yikes! Then I remember - today is Saturday. And not the typical 'places to go, people to see' day. Today my schedule is strangely void of meetings, work obligations, commitments. Oh, sure, the boys have stuff to do, and soon they will be clamoring for me to take them here and there. But at the moment, I have actual leisure time!

I debate what to do. The wide world outside my window beckons me with sun dappled fields and cheery blue skies. A light breeze combs the trees, enticing me with the prospect of exploring the hidden paths in the piney woods. No, I am not in the mood to wander into new places.

The pile of books by my dresser calls me - men and women from times and places long since gone invite me to step into their world and experience things I would otherwise never know - learn from their wisdom, understand their issues, see how they handled things. As fascinating as that is, I decline (in spite of the fact that I must accomplish a certain amount of that before class next Tuesday).

From the kitchen, last night's supper dishes call for my attention - it may be the only chance I have to neaten and straighten the house before the insanity of day begins. But the boys and I have made a pact. On the weekend, we each will clean one room (how convenient that there are three!) and this week the kitchen belongs to Drew. I resist the impulse.

It is too early to practice piano or listen to music without headphones or watch anything on TV if indeed there were anything worth watching. No, I have a better use of my unexpected leisure time. I am actually going to rest. Stay in bed. Catch a few more zzzz's. Sleep in! I roll over, pull the covers up to my chin and close my eyes. Normally when I try this, my mind is running a mile a minute and I cannot for the life of me stay put. After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I finally admit defeat and get up.

But today is different. I drift off almost immediately. Like a swimmer coming up for air, I wake and doze, wake and doze, watching the numbers on the clock change. I dream strange nonsense, puzzling over the actions when I wake, sorting the credible from the fantastic, slipping into slumber before I have quite figured it out. I must have needed the rest.

I do not venture forth until well after 8:30, and even then I do not dive into cleaning, reading, working, walking. I partake of a leisurely breakfast of cinnamon raisin toast and yogurt, sitting in front of the wide open window, watching the world awake. It feels good. I should definitely try this again.

Seagull Riot

No matter what time of day or night you drive past campus on Buffalo Road, you will find the center of the track filled with seagulls just sitting there nonchalantly doing nothing. When I first observed this odd behavior, I wondered if the center of the track were heated, enticing the birds to settle in. Or perhaps there were caches of worms and grubs that attracted their attention. I asked several people, and mostly they had never given it any thought. One person said in a very matter of fact way that they are there because of the pond on the other side of the field house. Period. End of discussion. I was not convinced. But since I don't speak seagull, I was stuck with that explanation.

I was surprised to find that when there are events, the school pays people to scatter the birds and shoo them away from the grass in the track center. How absurd! Of course, I know airports do that for safety reasons. But wouldn't it make more sense to find out why the seagull sit there and address the reason? After all, the ducks and geese are smart enough to contain themselves to the actual pond. Perhaps seagulls are a bit mental and don't quite get it right.

Today, the new students arrived in droves. Six hundred freshmen and transfer students descended en masse to campus, littering the lawn with cars spewing dorm furnishings and younger siblings. It was a tonic to have such activity after the doldrums of summer. Parents wandered into the library to check it out, timid and awestruck and maybe just a little bit overwhelmed by it all. I loved chatting with those who were willing, meeting the new students, answering questions (where's the bathroom being the all time favorite). It was great.

On the way home, as I headed my Malibu down Westside Drive, I suddenly realized that the seagulls were completely discombobulated. Most of them were airborn, wheeling and crying in distress. The rest of them were scattered all over the ground from the farthest soccer field to the tennis courts to the lawn behind the athletic center. They definitely did NOT like the students taking over their world and were demonstrating vehemently to anyone who would notice.

It will likely take days for them to settle down. I wonder they don't just give up and find a quieter place to reside - like an actual sea or lake. There are tons of them nearby. I do feel just a bit sorry for them though. Maybe I can ask an expert scientist why they behave as they do and get to the root of their problem. Or not.

Green Beans

My sister was taking a trip out to California, and invited me to harvest and eat any green beans that matured in her back yard garden while she was away. After my corn incident, I wasn't sure of the wisdom of such a thing, but I had tolerated green beans before, so I stopped on my way home from work and picked down a row of beans.

How I had forgotten the prickly feel of the wide leaves as you brushed them aside to scope out the dangling fruit. The beans are the exact green of the bush and hard to see unless you know how to manage the foliage, brushing it to the left, then to the right, lifting the leafage until the stems reveal the dangling pods.

Though I have aged considerably since last time I went picking, I found it easy to bend over the row pursuing the delectable little containers of vitamin A. For the briefest of moments, I thought of the huge backyard garden we had in Fort Covington and of how often I had helped pull weeds and pick vegetables alongside my brothers and sisters. I clearly remember my Mom hoeing the hills of corn while I was weeding the beet row. I could almost see the blue gingham skirt Mom wore, almost see my sister's long red braids brushing the ground as she bent to the task, almost glimpse my younger brother crawling between the rows digging for earthworms.

I giggled as I remembered the time my brother had singed his eyebrows off burning trash in the rusty barrel out back. I could almost hear the shouts of "allee-allee-in-free" as the neighborhood kids played hide and seek. For the briefest moment, I thought I smelled the peonies growing in the side yard, their deep pink and heady perfume the perfect attraction for a billion ants.

How odd. I never thought the string bean a memory aid!

Human Iguana

Kiel decided he would dabble in haute couture. I never thought one of my boys would be interested in sewing, but hey - who am I to discourage creativity? His questions involved mostly how to make a suit without doing it in any official way. You know, just lay down on the floor on a piece of fabric, draw around you, cut it out, glue it together, and voila! High fashion!

I tried to suggest he might want to go to someplace like JoAnn's Fabrics and browse the patterns, but that was too complicated. He wasn't after Home Ec, just projecting an image without a budget. The word Zoot Suit somehow entered our conversation, and he was off on a hunt. Before you could say Martha Stewart, I found myself face to face with the greenest, limiest, brightest, neonest cotton cloth I have ever seen. I'm pretty sure it will glow in the dark.

Somehow his seamster (ok, so the male version of seamstress is tailor) activities got all mixed in with his going to help his brother and wife after the birth of their first baby. Perhaps that was good, because he enlisted the aid of his grandmother who, after all, had a sewing machine. I'm not quite clear whether he ever got a pattern to follow (I suspect not), but together he and his Gram ended up with a decent fitting pair of pants, though I worry that the thinness of the fabric will cause an embarrassing incident of exposure sooner than anticipated.

The top of his suit consisted of no sleeves, short tails, and an open front. This part, without benefit of sewing machine, tended to be a bit less finished. Add in a homemade pair of suspenders highly decorated with fabric paint, and viola! Unique apparel.

Still, having seen the outfit on a hanger didn't prepare me for the overall effect. Sometime during the night after I had long gone to bed, the boy ended up with a green spiked mohawk (acrylic paint apparently) and I had totally forgotten about his vibrant green sneakers. He was - what shall I say? Uh, different.

I warned my colleagues that they might see a student dressed a bit unconventionally, but too late. They had already seen him. "That's a LOT of green," I kept hearing. After we all arrived home exhausted from opening day activities, I asked him how it went. He was disappointed that he didn't get many comments. People just stared at him, then went on with their conversations without remarking on his individualistic gear.

Of course, I heard comments - nothing unkind, just a bewildered "wow, he was so green." I guess I was the only one who thought he rather resembled my sister's green iguana. No matter. The ice has been broken, and now we can get down to business.

All Campus Dedication and Award Service

Once a year, all employees of the college are invited to participate in a service of prayer and communion. We come together to recognize those who have worked for the institution for certain numbers of years - five, ten, twenty. This year one of the faculty members reached forty years of service - an amazing accomplishment considering she didn't look as old as I am.

We sang hymns together, one of the music professors playing piano, one of the cultural life center directors playing guitar. We heard encouragement from our President. We partook of communion together. What an unusual activity. I have never encountered such a unique happening anywhere else. We are still a small enough organization to fit in the concert hall comfortably. And yet there are enough of us that you still have opportunity to meet someone new.

Afterwards, they served a light dinner of hors d'oevres in the atrium with carving stations set up on the upper level. The sound of the many conversing was melodious and pleasant. Everyone was smiling despite the difficult financial impact of last year. It was a great way to mark the beginning of a promising academic year. We are family.

Back in the Saddle

It looked so delicious. Wegman's makes a point of purchasing produce from local farmers. They proudly display pictures of their buyers sitting in the field holding the corn or melons or apples. Captions tell about the farm and the people working it. I have succumbed any number of times, bringing home - in addition to the Farmer's market goodies - peaches and melons locally grown.



Of course, I stick to things I am fairly confident I can digest and that won't create havoc with my delicate and fragile innards. I have made progress, but not as much as I would like. The other day, Kiel was with me in Wegmans, drooling over the sweet corn. I know I cannot handle corn, sweet or otherwise, so I have easily avoided the bin with the piles of green husk wrapped ears.



The selling point was when Kiel said he thought Drew would eat it if he cooked a few ears. They didn't need many, just one or two apiece. It is difficult to get Drew to eat vegetables. Even one a day would be amazing for him. So we selected four ears (Kiel pushed for a half dozen, but I wanted to see Drew eat some before I ended up wasting).



I learned to cook corn from my Gramma. I never appreciated the corn feasts at Gram's when I was young. It wasn't easy to feed our family with eight kids. But Gram had two vegetable gardens - one by the steel garage and one by the red barn. Generally, the sweet corn grew in the plot by the steel garage and the tomatoes and string beans etc. in the plot by the red barn.



Gram would set a huge pot of water on the stove, and as soon as it came to a boil, we would rush to the garden and pick our ears of corn. We sat around the kitchen table shucking like crazy, the silk flying everywhere, the empty husks stuffed in a grocery sack to be burned later (or twisted into dolls and whatnot). Field to pot in less than ten minutes. THAT's the way to do corn!



The best part was, we could have all we wanted. Grampa had a rule in his house. You could put as much on your plate of anything he had as long as you didn't waste it. The plate had to be licked clean before you left the table. Boy howdy did we chow down on the corn. We swirled the whole cob in butter, salt and pepper (especially the pepper) and dug in. Gram's formula was that once you filled the pot of boiling water with corn (at least a dozen at a time), when the water came back to a boil, you timed 2 minutes. Two. That ensured that when you bit into the golden kernels, the juice would spray everywhere. Those little nobs of corn would pop like water balloons!



Once the steaming platter of corn was set on the table, hands grabbed from all sides. Soon all you could hear was munching and slurping. Man, it was delicious. I always like the 'bread and butter' kind best - the mixture of white and yellow kernels. They tasted the sweetest. I could usually manage about two and a half cobs before my tummy was full. Topped off with a slice of fresh-from-the-garden tomato with a dob of dressing on top - a banquet unequalled in any fancy restaurant. Even then the digesting part was difficult. A feast of corn at Gram's usually meant a day of quality time in the bathroom. But kids don't let little things like that stop them!



Kiel cooked up the corn just like Gram had taught my Mom and she had taught me. He and Drew were obviously enjoying the treat. I looked at the juicy kernels with envy. I wonder. Maybe just a bite? Just one mouthful. Let's run a test and see what happens. I asked Kiel for a bite. He obliged. It tasted soooooo good, pretty close to what I remembered. Piece of cake. Maybe next time we get corn, I'll try a quarter of a cob.



Maybe not. Oh how I paid for that taste. My insides have come a long way from the 'food tube only' days, but I still have a ways to go. My little seater grew so raw and sore that I had to forego my usual am walks. Three whole days of agony passed before I was ready to resume my morning hikes. What a battle to convince myself to get up and get moving. I had to start all over with the pep talks, the bite-the-bullet-and-just-do-it arguments, the "no lame excuses acceptable" speeches.

I am happy to report that I finally overcame the inertia and hauled myself back into a walking routine. I'm good to go (unless the boys drag more corn into the house while I am around. . . .).

Fellowship

When you work in a church, its difficult to actually worship during a service. Your attention is focused on getting the choir to the right place at the right time, marking the next event in bulletin where there is music, keeping the flow of the service working well, leading the hymns, praying for the pastor, observing the congregation to see if they are engaged, being aware of how you can improve for next week's service, etc. Don't get me wrong - these are all good things that I thoroughly enjoy.

But I need to spend time with God in corporate worship - something on beyond my personal devotions. I usually find a place elsewhere where I can become one of the faces in the crowd and concentrate on connecting with God instead of helping others to do that. Last year, I attended half a service at another church before slipping out to be on time for choir warm-ups at my church. Less than satisfactory. It finally degraded into watching a service on TV, but the fellowship part was definitely missing.

I do get the occasional chapel service in seminary, but I miss having that deep, intimate, satisfying connection with God that comes from spending focused time in worship with other believers where I do not have to facilitate anything. Its hard to find a place where worship is conducive to that kind of personal relationship.

Today I attended an evening service that was quite comfortable for me. One of the professors at the seminary organized a gathering committed to excellence in worship. The meeting reminds me of an extraordinarily well done home fellowship of the kind I have discovered once in awhile through the past decades. I think I attended my first home fellowship in the sixties, and every so often I encounter another one for a season. God seems to send them along from time to time, and the result is almost always spiritual growth.

I was surprised at how many people I knew in the little circle of believers. Even the set-up of the room was conducive to sacredness and thoughtfully appointed. The pace of the service was unhurried, the invitation to participate through both scripted and unscripted response comfortable. The music was intimately tied to the scriptures (and we read from numerous books of the Bible), the communion quiet and meditative. Every other week is a fellowship dinner so you can get to know people.

I believe I will visit again. It may well turn out to be that point in my hectic week when time suspends and eternity brushes you back to reality.

Red Sky At Morn

Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky at morn, sailors be warned.



I'm not sure how that old weather adage became so ingrained. Just one of those teacher tricks that stuck I guess. When first I saw the sky this morning, it flowed gently to the west, a quilt of soft muted grays, comfortable and inviting. As I looked to the east, the soft gray was tinged just a smidge with a rose tint so faint you thought you were seeing things. Then, over the church steeple, a wide swath of bright rose with gold overtones.



Directly beneath, to the far east, an angry red, a fire red, loud and ugly. By the looks of things, we were in for a pounding storm. Besides that, it was cold enough to see my breath hanging in the air like little pillows of steam. I glanced at the treetops where the blush of fall was already kissing the leaves and coaxing them to the ground. Hard to believe its still only August.



Just as quickly as the sky had blushed in embarrassment at sunrise, the cloud cover cleared. In minutes there was only an ordinary blue sky with a wisp of cloud faintly spread across the wide canvas. Had I dreamed the vivid colors, the strange, other planet, science fiction sky? Now everything looked ordinary - just another day beginning.

I half expected to hear a milk delivery truck rattle by and see a paper boy tossing the daily on doorsteps. For one odd moment, it felt as if I had stepped into the past, into a time of sanity and normalcy when neighbors knew each other and daily routines were predictable. The spell was quickly broken by the unexpected passing of an eighteen wheeler on Lyell Avenue, and life resumed its hectic pace with cars whizzing by and joggers bounding faithfully past, their attention absorbed by the sounds emanating from their earbuds.

What an auspicious start to a promising day!

Across My Path

Normally when I take my morning walk, I encounter a dog walker or two, several cars leaving for work and several returning from work and not much else. Today it was as if the entire outdoors decided to make itself known.

It began with an innocent little bunny, so small that I didn't even see it until I ventured too close, causing it to jump up startled and scoot across the road in front of me. I think I jumped as high as it did. I wasn't even sure what it was until I saw the little white tail just as it slid into the dark woods. I took a deep breath, and continued on.

Not even a minute later, a huge golden retriever, sans master, darted in front of me, zipping from the parking lot on one side of the road to the parking lot on the other side of the road. Wow! He also took me by surprise. I turned my head to see if the owner were about, and almost swallowed a dragonfly, its angry whir of wings passing inches from my nose.

Good Lord! I collected myself and took a step, nearly obliterating a little brown toad who leaped out of way just moments before he would have been frog soup. What on earth! Once again I set out to complete my rounds. In the next few yards I encountered a cheeky gray squirrel flicking his tail and chattering as he dashed across the road, a butterfly who flew so quickly by that I couldn't even tell what sort of butterfly it was, a jogger in orange caution apparel whizzing by (show off), and more robins than I have ever seen in one place. They were happily hopping about catching worms by the complex entrance until I arrived causing them to swirl to air and flit over my head fluttering for cover.

Even a scrap of paper flew across my path. It was becoming so ridiculous that I couldn't help laughing. Maybe it was a sign. Or perhaps the planets were out of alignment or the moon was wobbling in its orbit. Whatever the reason, all I was missing was the proverbial black cat. Good thing I only do a mile and a bit. I can't imagine what I would have seen next!

Glorious Pines

Imagine if you will a mountain meadow where the grass is short and the wildflowers are scattered about sparsely. Here and there, in no particular pattern, pine trees stretch their wavy branches skyward, their feet carefully encased in chopped mulch. Each tree has plenty of room to grow without touching the branches of its neighbor.



They are every imaginable size, shape, and color from bright blue to green so dark its almost black. Short needle, long needle, young, old, straight, crooked - every flavor you could ask for. Such an amazing variety, such exceptional beauty. That is how the grounds of our apartment complex greet me every morning on my walk.



Most amazing of all are the pine cones. Some types of pine trees have tiny little cones no bigger than a thimble that sprout from the end of every branch and litter the ground beneath. Other trees have green cones that dangle from middle and lower branches, so tightly formed that even the squirrels can't crack them open.



The majority of the trees here have long skinny brown cones that grow mostly at the tippy top of the tree, the sheer number announcing their vitality and fertility to the world. I almost feel sorry for the tired trees with a mere handful of cones drooping from the top few branches. I am proud of the tall straight tree closest to our building with it plethora of cones marching down the whole top third of the tree. I giggle at the two trees with double tops and cones scattered between the split branches and I feel for the several trees with so many cones near the top that their head bows beneath the weight.



My compassion really goes out to the little tree with some sort of blight on its side, witnessed by the three dead branches that look so brittle I fear they may burst into flames at any moment. There are no cones at the top of this sick little tree. I worry that it may soon follow the fate of the tree they cut down last week and shredded into chips. I want to find it some medicine, to grab pruning shears and cut the cancer out of it to keep it from spreading, perhaps find some kind of spray or paint to treat its illness.

But alas! I know nothing of tree surgery. I don't even know what you call a tree doctor - one that tries to restore a tree to good health. All I can do is wish it well every morning and hope the disease doesn't spread - either to other branches or to its neighbors close at hand. Poor little tree.

Balloon Lady

We have been in our brand new library building an entire year already! It hardly seems possible that one year ago today the staff and administration met on the front steps to pray together and dedicate the new building. Of course, we had moved into the building a few weeks earlier. The first week was impossible as workmen scurried around doing what they called last minute touch ups and what I would have called "why in the world haven't you done that yet??!!" But what do I know.



There were guys ironing (yes, ironing!) the paneling where bubbles had appeared in places where the glue hadn't adhered properly. There were carpet guys still laying squares behind desks that were still having the marble affixed, computer people running wires, electricians on step ladders with their heads buried in the ceiling panels, and a few painters doing "finishing" work.



There were smells galore - heady, strong and obnoxious to the point where I sent staff home because it was making them sick. Hammers pounded, drills buzzed, buffers buffed. The curious roamed about freely, sticking their heads in doors to 'oooh' and 'aahhhh.' It was something of a circus. I doubted sincerely that we would pull off the official dedication ceremony just a few weeks later, but somehow miraculously it happened.



This year's celebration was much quieter. We still met on the steps outside for prayer with the Provost (new since last year). He and the Library Director said a few words. Then we proceeded to the Fireside Reading Room upstairs for cake and punch. And of course, all the promotional materials we could muster to show how far we have come since we first moved in, all the changes we have made and the services we have enabled, the resources we have added and the changes in response to suggestions from our community.



We ran a digital picture frame with the self guided tour we ran last year. We set up the big screen TV with our LEEDS display (we are a certified green building). We had a laptop showcasing our new updated OPAC, and a ton of brochures on our various services. We had decided on simple decorations - a dozen helium balloons in red and silver.

At least, that's what we intended. It was my duty to pick up the balloons because I had gotten balloons for last year's open house event. I had researched a number of stores to find the nicest selection at the best price, so I knew just where to go. I didn't want to get them too early - no sense having half deflated balloons hanging about. So I waited until lunch time to drive to the store.

There was a short line, and while I waited, I perused the sample balloons plastered on the wall behind the counter. Yes, there were silver and red balloons. This should work out OK. I patiently waited while the gentleman ahead of me asked the clerk to ring things up separately, bag them differently, paid with some sort of gift card/voucher combination, and chattered about nonsense.

When at last he concluded his business, I stepped up to the counter. The young lady at the register stood looking down at the floor. I wasn't sure what she was doing, so I waited until she looked up. I was excited about getting the balloons, but it quickly became apparent that she wasn't.

"I'd like to get a dozen balloons please." Deep sigh, no response.
"I'd like six silver ones -" "We don't have any silver balloons."
"But you have one on the wall-" "We're out."
"OK. Well, I'll take six of the red round ball-" "We don't have round ones in red."
"But-" "They're gone. We don't get another shipment until next week."
"What about that one?" I pointed to a red balloon hanging on the wall. "Its not round. That's heart shaped."
"OK, let me have six -" "We don't have six left."
"How many do you have?" "Five."
"OK, I'll take five. Do you have any black-" "No."
"What's that silver one in the drawer there?" "Winnie the Pooh. You don't want it."

Her answer were like bullets fired from a rifle. Short, staccato, and to the point. She had not looked at my face even once. Each balloon she filled was twisted shut with a vengeance. Obviously she was not fond of having to sell balloons! When at long last I left the store, sans anything approaching a smile, look, or hint of customer service, I clutched 9 meager balloons - red hearts and white stars. It would just have to do. I hoped the rest of the staff would not be disappointed. I did let the wind blow across the bouquet, hoping it would cleanse the sour spirit from them.

Later that afternoon as the celebration was winding down, I thought about the unhappy young lady at the balloon store and wondered what was making her life so miserable. I could only imagine why someone so young would be so unhappy. I said a prayer for her. And for the customers she would "help." Maybe tomorrow would be a better day for her.

As for me, the best part of the anniversary celebration is that I still love the building and find my spirits lifted every day I go to work, just by the beautiful surroundings. Maybe the balloon lady should come and visit!

Rabid Dishwasher

I have never seen a rabid animal up close. Mostly I've seen some movie producer's idea of what that looks like - particularly memorably in the movie Old Yeller. I read the book first, then watched the movie, and bawled through both of them.

Life is hard in early America. Poor young Travis - first he can't stand the stray mutt that wanders into his life, then he comes to rely on it through all sorts of perils. I found the she bear scene particularly spine tingling, and agonized through the part where the dog's owner comes to claim Old Yeller. Worst of all is the part where Old Yeller saves the family from a rabid wolf (note foam dangling from jaw and crazed look in eyes) and gets bit in the process. Who didn't cry when Travis had to shoot the faithful dog to save his family from extinction and horrible suffering? Man. If you haven't seen it in awhile, its worth a look.

I certainly didn't expect to encounter a rabid anything in my quiet little kitchen. Not quite the roughness of a sod hut on the prairie, our kitchen is small but comfortable. With the ivory lace and sea green curtains gracing the window overlooking the parking lot and buildings beyond, and the Amish crafted wooden table and three wooden Shaker chairs, it's an inviting and homey space. I love the warm cherry look of the wooden cabinets - my apartment sized wooden hutch with the glass door fits right in. It's a cozy room where you want to coax delightfully tantalizing odors from fresh garden produce, chopping and sauteing until your heart's content, perhaps kneading a batch of bread dough on a lazy Saturday morning.

I have worked hard to keep everything convenient yet tucked out of sight, I am definitely into a 'no-clutter' look. So while the boys were watching a movie in the living room, I wandered into the kitchen to tidy up a bit. Kiel had started the dishwasher, but there were a few pots and pans needing rinsing. I turned the faucets both on full blast (meaning I got just the right amount of temperature and pressure) and worked happily, opening the lower cabinet to toss a few paper scraps into the trash. I was so happy that maintenance had fixed the "no water coming into the dishwasher" problem. I am justifiably spoiled, and delighted not to have to stand for hours at the sink washing dishes despite the good memories of doing that chore as a child.

Suddenly I encountered gobs of white foam spewing from the dishwasher door, piling up like mounds of snow, invading the linoleum and creeping towards the carpet. "Yikes!" I yelled. Two heads turned towards me from the living room. "What?"

"The dishwasher is exploding!" My excited voice was not exactly a whisper.

"Huh?" No body moved to help.

"Really. There's bubbles all over the place." I suddenly envisioned an I Love Lucy episode where Lucy put too much soap in the washing machine. "So?" came the irritated reply. No sense getting all het up over something so minor. They turned back to the movie. With the dishwasher foaming at the mouth and the crazed look in my eyes, there was clearly something rabid in the kitchen.

I was left to fight the wild beast on my own, which meant nothing more drastic than turning the durn machine off, opening the door, clearing away the suds, mopping up the mess, and restarting. At least I didn't have to shoot it and put it out of my misery. My burning question was why it had foamed up. After all, I sure didn't want it to happen again. No one offered any speculation as to the why's. But it happened twice more before Kiel realized that he had mistaken the dishwashING soap for the dishwashER stuff. No wonder.

At least we figured it out and the rabid dishwasher has died a quiet death and is now behaving itself nicely.

Morning Dew

Walking on blacktop is not necessarily healthy for your knee joints as I have discovered on my morning walks. I switched my comfy sandals for proper walking sneakers, but still felt a bit of jarring in my joints. Then it occurred to me that I should walk on the grass beside the road instead of on the unforgiving pavement.



What a surprise to discover that the smooth velvety lawn was neither smooth nor velvety! Each step uncovered unexpected little dips and mounds in the earth that the grass cleverly concealed. Sometimes as I stepped down, I could feel the unevenness and adjust my foot position to accommodate the terrain. Other times I just kept moving while my foot slipped and slid on the bumpy surface. If that doesn't strengthen your ankles, I don't know what will!



It was definitely easier on my knees though. And safer when a car approaches. Since I am wearing headphones, I choose to walk facing into the traffic so I make sure I am aware of vehicles nearby. Not that it's so busy in the morning, but the sporadic traffic, unhindered by speedbumps (yeah!!!), can pass you at a pretty quick clip.



Once I got off the road and into the grass, it was easy to meander into the meadows scattered here and there between buildings. How sweet to add more interest to my daily trips, edging closer to the shrubs that conceal the little streams snaking through the property.



By the time I made it back to my apartment, my sneaker-clad feet were drenched and squishing water collected from the dew covered grass. My socks were cold with the wetness, the cuffs of my sweatpants dark and damp. Darn dew looks so gorgeous sparkling all innocent and jewel-like in the morning sun. Sure doesn't translate well when you bring it home!

Practicing

I have been trying to practice piano for years. I remember when I was in kindergarten Mom signed me up to take lessons with Freddie Jones, the neighbor boy who played piano. Freddie was tall and lanky with dark hair and glasses. I don't believe I ever actually heard him play, and my lessons with him didn't last very long. But it was the beginning of a life long love affair with the piano.

After my quick stint with Freddie, my appetite was whetted for more. Mom taught me what she knew (she played violin in high school and college), and then I was on my own. Here and there along the way people gave me music, usually yellowed and falling apart books that someone no longer wanted. It didn't matter - I loved trying to figure out the new pieces, stumbling about until something made sense to me and I caught on at least enough to get by.

After we moved from Freddie's little town to the big village (smile), I took about a half year with the ever engaging Mr. Marcucci. He was a short, fat, cigar smoking man with black horn rimmed glasses who insisted on putting his hand on my back and blowing smoke in my face. I wriggled out of that as soon as I could. Creepy. But not enough to sour me on learning the piano.

They didn't offer piano in school, so I studied flute instead, and played in the marching band, no small feat on freezing football game evenings. We marched in the Memorial Day parades every year. Too hard to march with a piano though. Still, I persevered.

One glorious year someone gave me a book of piano pieces that included some Chopin. What ecstasy! My fingers puzzled over just how one was supposed to play such passages, stumbling drunkenly through the runs and arpeggios, but I didn't care. I had no clue how these pieces were supposed to sound, had never heard this music before. The only real music I remember outside of church hymns was once when Mom and Dad took us to hear a concert of Handel's Messiah. I was so young and the concert was so late that I kept falling asleep, and Mom would wake me up and insist that I listen to this treat. I liked it, really I did. I just couldn't stay awake.

As limited as my musical exposure tended to be, I was addicted. I would practice piano for hours where ever I found an instrument to play. Every book of piano music opened worlds of joy for me, and I pounded out melodrama to my heart's content. It was marvelous.

Looking back, I think I must have driven the neighbors and half the town nuts with my incessant repetition of badly performed music. No one could have tolerated that with charity. I am surprised no one ever told me to stop, or perhaps they did and I just didn't hear them.

Well, things don't change much. The boys have taken off for awhile, and as soon as they left, I seated myself at the piano and began playing. First I worked on PrayerSong music, learning the harmonies, figuring out the challenging passages for the singers. But soon the longing inside took over and I opened the piano bench and took out a couple of books.

I started with Mozart - he is great for warming up stiff fingers. Soon I was into Brahms. I cannot play the way I want to. I can hear the music as it was meant to be, as I have heard others play it, ripe with longing and love. I have managed to progress a bit beyond my high school days, but I am nowhere near where I would like to be.

I suppose if I spent the proper time and worked with a proper teacher, I could make some headway. One is never too old for that. But alas! My life has other demands. I am not free to follow my heart. I can only continue to do as I have done for so long - play the music badly, but love it completely.

Perhaps if I am allowed to grow old and my eyesight does not fail nor my finger joints stiffen with arthritis, when my children are all grown and gone and if I actually get to retire, I shall find time and resources to learn to practice enough to play well. Until then, I snatch a hour here and there and dream of what I cannot yet achieve. Someday. Someday.

They're Everywhere

I bump into cancer victims everyplace I go. Its almost as if I have some sort of radar that draws cancer people into conversations. Today I was at the Farmer's Market, scarfing up fresh peaches and blueberries, luscious ripe red tomatoes, the biggest green pepper I have ever seen, and wonderful yellow summer squash! With my new found toleration of cooked veggies, I am eager to indulge.



I was in a bit of a hurry because I was meeting in about ten minutes with the choir secretary to sort through files (the Farmer's Market is right at the church), but I wanted to get some flowers. At the very first table there were displays of marigolds, zinnias, sunflowers, sweet peas, dahlias, larkspur - such vivid colors and bold combinations. I deposited the heavy melon and fruits in my truck and went back to select a small bouquet for the kitchen table. The cheery flowers would brighten anyone's morning!



I wondered how the couple manning the table managed to do so much harvesting in the mornings before they set up. I could just imagine getting up while it was still dark and heading for the fields to collect produce to sell - cucumbers and spinach, swiss chard and pattypan squash. I could smell the pungence of their potted basil and the bunches of radishes were so enticing that I succumbed even though I doubt that I can tolerate eating them.



I drooled over all the flowers, trying to decide. Do I get three bright yellow sunflowers? Can I mix them with the lighter yellow sweet peas? Will the maroon zinnias work with the yellow? Do I want the three for a dollar mix and match or should I select one of the smaller already made up bouquets? Then of course, there were the special flowers on the main table, a bit pricier but well worth the investment. Decisions, decisions!



I finally settled on a small cheerful mix of bright reds and pinks, picking up the mayonnaise-jar-converted-to-water-vase and taking my place in line behind an elderly gentleman who kept adding things to his growing list of purchases. As the woman behind the table helped him select swiss chards and squashes, they chatted about work and business.



She looked at me, and with a wink, said she was asking her doctor for an energy prescription. The gentleman didn't seem to hear her comment, and she totalled up his order, mentioning again how tired she was and how she wasn't sure she could keep this up. The man counted out the amount, picked up his bags, and wandered off.



There we were, standing facing each other, somehow alone in the busy marketplace. She began telling me about her cancer and her chemo and how she longed for the good old 19 hour workdays. She desperately needed to talk. Why else would she blurt such things out to a total stranger? I listened quietly as the words gushed from her insides in no particular order. I understood.



Its totally unfair that she has to keep working while she is being treated for a life threatening disease. How can life be so cruel? And why doesn't anyone hear her pleas for help, her desperate fears? Where is her family, her grown children perhaps or a sister or two? Maybe even a Mom still? It takes way more than a village to help a cancer victim.



She finally slowed down and took a deep breath, tears rimming her eyes, threatening to escape at the least provocation. I wanted to hug her and tell her it would be OK, or at least that she was not alone. I recognized the old "family is in denial - pretend you aren't sick" thing. She stared at me, surprised by her own outburst. A look of relief spread over her face as I told her that I understood and that I had also battled one cancer and am now still dealing with another one. I told her about our website and some of the things we offer.



She gave me her business card with her email written on it. "Please send me your website," she whispered. Customers were starting to need attention. Her husband was waiting on several people and she had to get back to work. As she turned to assist a rather portly woman, I tucked her card in my pocket and gave her a parting smile. We find each other in the most ordinary places, we sisters of the Big C. We will meet again.

Foraging

Oy, can growing boys eat! No matter how much I spend on groceries, there is never enough in the house to make a decent meal. I have tried all sorts of strategies to cope with the "empty cupboard" syndrome, to no avail. If I spend $200 on a Friday (it happens), on Saturday, there is nothing to make a meal out of. Its a mystery where all that food goes! I certainly am not eating all of it, even though I am hardly a skinny minny.



Drew swears he is not eating all of it - after all, he doesn't even get up until noon. And Kiel isn't eating it either since he hasn't even been home much. So there must be gremlins that moved with us from the old place who cavort about the kitchen after midnight consuming stuff out of sheer spite and melodrama.



For awhile, Drew and I spent time in the car before heading into the grocery store mapping out the week's meals and listing the necessary ingredients. That really didn't make much progress and turned out to be more expensive than NOT planning. Scrap that. Then I decided I simply wasn't going to buy any more food until every last scrap of even the most unpopular foodstuffs had been consumed. That was mildly successful, but elicited a great deal of grousing and complaining accompanied by the pouting "My Mother is a lousy parent" look. Not ideal.



We tried the "eat one meal a day" strategy. Not a good idea. We tried the 'carbohydrates only' plan - you know, pasta, cereal, and cookies. Hardly recommendable and Boring. We tried the 'nothing but real food' diet and a zillion other plans including the ever popular "clip coupons and don't buy anything unless its on sale or reduced due to being day old". I have finally reconciled to the $200-a-week-nothing-in-the-house syndrome until somebody graduates and moves on. In the meantime, both boys are required to get a job and help with that. Yeah, good luck with that!



(You boys realize this is a spoof, right?)

A Spoonful of Sugar

Our students workers this summer have had to endure tedious projects and heavy workloads - quite different from the last few summers of leisure and desk watching in staff absences. Oh, sure, they put a few books away, checked out some materials, and pointed the way to the bathrooms in the old building, but basically, it was a cheesecake job.

Not on my watch, they were sorry to learn. These stacks had not been thoroughly cleaned or shelf read in some time, and there were numerous collections that had resisted cataloging or even being shelf listed, not to mention shifting and relabeling and a dozen other hangovers from the move to a whole new place and outlook.

Every morning at the stroke of 8 the sound of the whiny stax vac can be heard laboriously working its way through the B section, sucking up dust, dirt and dead bugs. Yuck. Time for rubber gloves and aprons. Every afternoon, instead of snoozing lightly at the desk while digesting a scrumptious lunch, students had to focus on tiny call numbers and all their idiosyncrasies of order. Library of Congress indeed!

Its hard to keep the big picture of just why we are doing all this in mind when you are weighed down by the drudgery of picky details. Yes, customer service is our goal, making sure students and faculty can in fact actually find the book they want when they want it, and that said book will be in pristine shape. So we add in inventorying for damaged materials and hand lists to the repair librarian. Novel.

Complaints and grumblings had trickled down. They feel unappreciated, singled out for the unpopular jobs. What to do? Of course, tell them how much I appreciate their work, what a stellar job they are doing. Of course, remind them of the big picture. Better yet, invite them all to Panera's for lunch on us.

We excitedly gather at the circulation desk and head outside together to carpool to the Chili Avenue location. Hearts are light and joy beams from faces. We set aside the long hard summer and relax, basking in the glow of good food, good conversation, good friends. Yes, it has been a long hard summer, but nothing a good strawberry poppyseed mandarin orange salad with fruit smoothie on the side can't help.

Old Friends

The wonderful thing about working the late shift is that eventually you get a morning off! I decided to take Wednesday morning to wade through choral music at Sibley Music Library, my old digs. I am constantly searching for little musical gems PrayerSong can tackle. I do keep finding stuff, though I could use a lot more a cappella music.

I wanted to ask a former colleague there a few questions about procedures and vendors, so I emailed her to see if she was free to meet with me at some point in the morning. That's how we came to be sitting at a sidewalk table in front of Java Joe's chatting and sipping Mango Ceylon iced tea (flavor of the day, but I wasn't so impressed - sometimes a snazzy title isn't all it purports to be). It was pleasant to catch up, especially to be outside on such a blue and breezy day and we chatted about kids and jobs and interests.

I told her about my mission to find music for PrayerSong and asked if she'd like to join us. At first, she said she was too busy and was spending a lot of time saying "No!" to offers like that. Fine with me. I always ask, since you never know who might be willing if only they are asked! So I chattered away about last year and Roswell Park and the music. The more I talked, the more interested she seemed.

Finally, she asked me to send her more information, and then mentioned that if she became involved, she could arrange for a centrally located rehearsal space spacious enough to accommodate a growing choir! Wow! That would be great. Regardless, I hope she does decide to sing with us. Its a terrific cure for being underappreciated and gives such a sense of having made a tangible difference.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled program!

Moth Catcher

The novelty has worn off. I must be stern with myself about getting out the door in the early am to walk my morning mile despite the fact that I look forward to listening to music as I wander the pleasant grounds of the complex.

I open my eyes early enough, but shut them as I eke out every possible minute of sleep before I absolutely must make myself throw back the cover, swing my legs over the edge and hoist myself to an upright position. It's not hard to fall into my 'jogging' clothes since they are laid over the laundry basket next to the closet. I grab my walkman, keys, and hat and head out the door and down the stairs to the gray overcast skies and chilly air.

This morning's fare is the St Olaf Choir, a wide variety of musical styles and tempos. The first song boasts a moderate tempo, a good speed to begin my walk. I encounter fellow walkers, joggers and dog owners. We nod politely as we pass.

As I round the first corner heading towards the wooded areas, a small brown sparrow suddenly swoops in front of me, chasing a fluttering moth. They zig and zag, turning back on themselves, flying straight at me. I stand stock still, watching in fascination. It happened so fast that I'm not sure whether the swallow gave an extra spurt of speed, or the moth tired and slowed for a fraction of a second, but the swallow scooped up the moth in its beak, and pulled up seconds before it would have crashed into my chest.

I am a bit startled. The bird veers off into the woods with its prize, perhaps breakfast for its babies. I continue my trek around the loop, taken aback by the sudden encounter with destiny. One small life consumed for the benefit of another. The expression "dog eat dog" leapt to mind, and I couldn't help think of work situations where I watched one employee scramble for advancement at the expense of others.

I shudder at the ugliness of it, wetting my lips at the very thought of putting a moth in my mouth. I shake my head. The choir is very aptly singing Hear My Prayer O Lord by Henry Purcell, a winding sinuous song of lament. Thank goodness for the upcoming song City of Heaven - something with a little more encouragement vim and vigor!

He's Back!

Drew has been lost without his brother. When they were younger, Kiel didn't much appreciate his younger brother wanting to hang around with him. Now, Drew is catching up. Not just in height, where Drew has surpassed all the other boys, but in interests. Oh, there's still an element of admiration, but they share so many common interests - soccer, movies, games, swimming, eating. Eating! Good Lord! Who can keep up? For awhile, I thought perhaps if I bought a reasonable amount of food each day, I could control the overall budget drain. Not so. Food disappears from the larder faster than you can blink. These growing boys are still growing!

Kiel has felt somewhat dispossessed for the last few years. When he left for college, I lived in Illinois, then Connecticut, and now New York. He didn't make those moves as an integral part of the family, more as an outsider. This move was different. Even though I didn't realize he would be living with us again when I signed the new lease, he was part of the family unit when we moved in. He belongs again.

Though he loves the capital district and Adirondack areas, though he grew up there and his grandparents, father and brother still live there, it didn't feel like home to him this time. Maybe because his future doesn't lie there, maybe because he was mostly babysitting, maybe because he has moved on, for whatever reason, he felt less of a draw. A good place for a summer vacation, but not for him right now.

He hugged me when he bounced into the house Sunday night at nearly midnight. Its good to be home. Drew was happy to see him. Let's see how long the joy lasts!

Strangely Familiar

The last time I attended the Webster church was in 2002, right before I moved to Illinois. Even though I had driven there at least twice a week for several years to work with the choir, I looked up the directions, just in case. Things change, after all.

As soon as I turned onto 590N, it began to fall into place. Same exit ramp onto Bay Road, same tantalizing view from the bridge, same streets, same buildings. Right onto Klem Road, pull into the far drive and swing around behind the building. The same and yet different. There were new houses here and there, and once I entered the sanctuary, a brand new look. The platform had been modified, the piano was new, the decor gentler, the air - cooled! Hallelujah, air conditioning!

There was the choir - familiar faces, new faces - warming up, practicing anthems. I felt a twinge of jealousy watching a stranger conduct. The service was wonderful - so vibrant and alive. My heart rejoiced that this deserving community had not only survived, but was thriving and growing. Attendance was good, especially for an August service.

I looked around for people I had worked with. I don't always remember names, but faces stay with me. Some were there, others missing. I watched with amusement as people looked at me with puzzled glances, then amazement as they remembered me.

What a joy to be with family again, if only for a brief moment. How true what the interim pastor said - "Once you are part of a place, you always belong." And how encouraging that people were interested in PrayerSong. I believe there are several who will come and sing with us and others who will have us come to sing for loved ones with cancer.

As I passed out my recruiting flier, I lifted my heart in prayer for these wonderful people holding up the light of Christ in their corner of the world with such joy. What an interesting interwoven path we travel. Who would have guessed when first I met this choir that I would return years later and reconnect? How great is that!

Ground Fog

It was eerie, driving down the road of our complex right after the intense rain. The night was dark with barely a half moon peeking out from behind the angry clouds. The blacktop, still hot from the beating sun of daytime, became a steam iron of reaction to the cooling deluge. Wispy columns of thin fog rose lazily from the pavement, dancing dreamily in front of our headlights.

It was a scene straight out of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream. I half expected our slow pace to be suddenly interrupted by Oberon chasing Titania across the grassy meadow just beyond the stand of pine trees at the end of the loop. Even Drew remarked on the magic of the night. Perhaps we would slide right into Narnia and have an adventure!

But alas, the only adventure waiting for me was the thrill of cleaning up the kitchen and taking out the garbage. No goosebumps and unicorns in my destiny tonight. When at long last I lay down for the night, listening to the rain pattering now and again against the roof as the storm front rolled past in waves, I could smell the freshness of the air washed clean of grime and pollution.

Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove's soft whrr echoed sadly, unanswered. The whole scene was vaguely reminiscent of nights spent at Gramma's house, sleeping in Aunt Lil's room (it was always called Aunt Lil's room long after Aunt Lil had passed away), inhaling the sweet air tinged with chicken coop and garden fertilizer, lulled to sleep by the gentle tap tapping of the dark green windowshade against the wood sill as the night breeze fluttered the sheer curtains out and in, moving them as if some sleeping giant were inhaling and exhaling just on the verge of falling asleep.

I am not so far from that little girl growing up in the comfort and security of an old clapboard house tucked near the edge of a sleepy Route 50, surrounded by the rows of corn and tomatoes, iris beds and lilac bushes, the old red barn and the steel garage with its inviting piles of stone and sand.

On a magic night like this, I can almost get back there, almost smell the oil of Grampa's automotive shop, almost hear the chickens clucking themselves to sleep, almost taste the warm juicy tomatoes straight out of the garden, almost hear my Gramma calling up the stairs through the curtains hanging at the bottom step, "You alright, Sis?"

Yes, I am. I am alright. I am still alright. A magical night indeed. I roll over and take a deep, satisfying breath.

Sundae Lunch

Our lives had briefly intersected last fall when I provided some instruction for her honors class, a pleasant introduction. I sensed at once that that here was a person of integrity and character, well worth getting to know, but we travel in different worlds, she and I.

And so my first year unfolded with ever so scarce times of seeing her in action directing faculty workshops or nodding hello across a crowded seminar room. I came to hear some of her honors students' presentations, an impressive array of thought provoking topics, she the proud educator watching her fledglings fly on their own.

A few weeks ago, she came to talk again of instruction for her honors class, and brought the texts she was considering using. We had a wonderful exchange about the required reading texts, about the wide ranging span of intensity (or lack thereof), about the changing landscape of administrative expectations. A refreshing dialogue.

I waxed bold and asked for a lunch date. A flurry of email exchanges later, we had decided to skip lunch and go right for dessert - Abbott's frozen custard to be exact (a woman after my own heart). Despite the pouring rain, I picked her up at the designated hour and we hied ourselves off campus to the unassuming building on Buffalo Road where we both ordered strawberry sundaes, and settling in for some meaty conversation.

Like compatriots in crime, we savored bites of cold vanilla smothered in strawberries and whipped cream while we explored all sorts of topics. Especially interesting to me were the discussions of the women who had sacrificed careers in order to create a library for a struggling young institution that did not know how desperately they needed such a resource. By sheer willpower and determination, Ms. Ora Sprague and her sidekick had spun gold from straw, building collections, forging policies, creating a respectable library.

This woman across from me had sat under their tutelage as both student and faculty, learning, absorbing, becoming fast friends. She bemoaned the fact that the institution scarcely remembers the hours and hours of toil, the sacrifices they made, the incredible dedication.

I value her perspective, recognizing in her elements gone missing in our instant and 'cutting edge' fast paced society. I appreciate her dedication to people, to drawing the best from them, teaching eager minds to think well, to make longterm commitments towards things that will really matter in the end, to find the keys in the rubble that will unlock the life they long for.

She is not so unlike the women whose stories she told with such clarity. We chatted well beyond my usual hour lunch, every minute delicious. I look forward to further conversations of exploration as we connect in ways beyond the classroom and into the universe of life.

Puddles and Lace

After the night's drenching rain, I knew my morning walk would present a few challenges. Everything was dripping wet - trees, grass, bushes, sidewalks, blacktop. I worried that there would be flooding like we encountered the week we moved in where half the parking lot was submerged with creek overflow. The parking lot was fine, but every indentation in the ground cradled a puddle. The sides of the road were highly decorated with little mirrors of water all along my path. I should have thought bugs would be rampant, but not a wing fluttered.

Not a leaf nor a blade of grass moved. Everything lay still and sleeping, exhausted by the night's storm. Even the weeds by the woods hung down weighted with water, nodding wearily in the aftermath of pelting cloudbursts. Purple thistles protruded from pockets of underbrush, their spiny faces stoic. Silence shrouded the landscape. Not a swallow or sparrow flitted or twittered. Not a single cricket, June bug or tree toad sang.

So it was that I came to the wooded section where the sun rarely shines. How peculiar to find such lush growth in the shadow of the overhanging trees. Suckers and saplings braced the base of every tree, thick with greenery. Blackberry brambles twined about trunks, hard green buds showing where berries would soon appear. Thistles forced their way out of the tangle, menacing passersby.

Halfway around the curve, a raft of Queen Anne's lace skirted the shoulder of the road, each white head bowed as if before royalty. Some of the delicate blossoms had curled tightly together, protecting its fragile flowers from the onslaught of wind and rain. I stooped to see them better, these lacy landscape decorations. I inhaled. The air smelled pungent and woodsy. As I sat still gazing, a tiny movement caught my attention. There on the thin green stem of the largest flower crawled a little lady bug, black and red, her pincers trailing behind, her mouth working steadily.

I watched for awhile, then suddenly, she opened her wings and flew off, just like that, into the underbrush. Even in the aftermath of a horrible storm, there are folks who quietly go about their business, unaffected by the devastation about them. I walked on, the strains of Kyrie Eleison ringing in my ears.

The Dip

I don't always have such a hectic schedule, but we are already gearing up for fall. I ended up working the full day AND having to work the night shift as well. I barely had an hour between picking Drew up from soccer camp and my 5pm shift at reference. I needed to get him home and grab something for dinner before dashing back. As I was driving home, wilting a bit from the heat, I thought of the crystal clear pool in our complex, how pristine and inviting the water always looked. I calculated the minutes. If I played my cards right and settled for grabbing a frozen dinner, I could squeeze in a half hour of swimming.

Drew was shocked when I suggested it, interrupting him mid-sentence. He blinked, thought a minute, then agreed. It was settled. We would hit the pool as soon as we could shuck our day clothes, slide into our bathing suits and dash over to the pool. We walked around the back side of the buildings so as not to be in the public view in our swim wear, carefully picking our way around some doggie doodoo.

Drew flipped the gate latch, we signed in, greeted the lifeguard (lovely young lady), and threw our towel and shorts on a deck chair. I chose to walk down the three steps in the shallow end of the pool. Eeek - the water feels chilly. Its hard to force yourself to keep stepping deeper into the inviting but frigid blueness. Once you reach waist deep, there's no going back. You finally take the final plunge and you're in.

Drew, on the other hand, jumped directly into the deep end. I think instantly of the Bishop of Calcutta, a British missionary who jumped into the Ganges River and died of shock. Too drastic a temperature change could be bad for your health! We swim back and forth, Drew plays underwater, walking down the slope between the shallow and deep sides. He laughs that the three foot depth doesn't even come up to his waist. He has really grown!

I finally tear myself away, knowing that if I cut it too close, I won't get back on time and my colleague will get stuck at the desk when she could be home swimming too. I scurry back to the apartment, trying to rush changing clothes - not easy when everything is wet and sticking to you. I make it back to work with 1 minute to spare. Whew! But I sure do feel refreshed. Its enough to get me through the rest of the evening. How delicious!

Lightning

The day was glorious - a magical summer day with blue skies and puffy white clouds, warm temperatures not hot and just the right amount of breeze to clear your head without blowing sand in your eyes. I so wished my workspace were outside (I gave serious consideration to taking a laptop to the portico to see if I could get wireless leakage there).

Mid afternoon, the sky to the east grew ominously dark and suddenly, from my vantage point at the reference desk, I saw the heavens open and the rain pour down so hard the air seemed white with froth. Rain bounced off the metal siding, drummed on car roofs, deluged the muddy spots where grass had been trampled away, streamed in rivulets down the new sidewalk, and pooled on the blacktop in the parking lot. I am thankful my office is not outside!

People dashed across campus, scurrying for shelter, holding notebooks or newspapers over their heads in hopes of fending off some of the drenching, but to no avail. Four or five students burst through the library front doors, laughing and breathless, water dripping from their faces, their sandals squeaking in useless protest.

Five minutes later, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, the birds were singing, the dark skies vanishing to the north. My guardian angel was hard pressed to keep me dry as I ran my late afternoon errands. The weather was so schizophrenic there was no way to predict when the cloudbursts would suddenly overtake you and when they would let up.

Well into the evening thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, and power came and went. My evening meeting to learn the new church music database was rudely interrupted by a power outage that I later learned was from a downed utility pole several miles away on Buffalo Road. I had to take a different route home. We changed our plans and worked on weeding the music collection until it was just too dark outside to illuminate the pages of printed music, forcing us to give up.

As I lay in bed trying to sleep, the sky poofed alive with unpredictably irregular flashes of lightning and the heavy air cracked with loud surges of thunder. Sometimes you could hear the pounding rain, other times a mournful train whistle brought close by the humidity. There's nothing quite like a New York storm front venting its fury on innocent bystanders, taming the sweltering heat and washing the grist from the atmosphere.

Fixed!

Two minor problems with the new place: the refrigerator froze everything even on the lowest setting, and the dishwasher didn't have any water going into it. I sighed with total lack of enthusiasm. I hate trying to convince someone else that something doesn't work and that I am not just a clueless nincompoop who just doesn't know how to do stuff.

In the previous complex, I had a list of things that needed fixing created during our "walk through" on move in. It was a good twenty or thirty broken items that, granted were small, but little irritations that would have been nice to have had fixed.

The few items the office sent a maintenance person over to address had to be redone at least two or three times before they worked - and those were major things like heat or water leaks. I heard that over the course of the year I lived there they fired four of their five maintenance men because of incompetence. Maybe, but they still didn't fix stuff in my place, and after awhile, you give up. Its hard not to think that somehow you just don't deserve to live in a place where things work! Am I too poor? Too female? Too old? Too uneducated (that can't be it). Too what?

So with some small amount of dread, I went to the office Sunday afternoon to report the situation. I have to admit, my expectations were low. And being the weekend, I was sure no one would appear until at least Monday. The weekend office person (amazing that they are open on Sunday!) had a little trouble with the concept that the freezer thaws and the refrigerator freezes, but she faithfully typed into the computer what I said and assured me that someone would be by first thing Monday to have a look see.

Monday on the drive home from work, I was curious whether anyone had looked at the appliances. Even if they had, they probably would have to order parts or some such thing. I didn't hold out much hope. We parked in our assigned spot (how glorious not to have to park a mile away because the neighbors all get home before you and take the close spaces!) and trudged up the stairs.

There on the door hung a pink slip. Yes, they had come, looked and FIXED both appliances!!! I was shocked, amazed, delighted, dubious. I would not believe they were working properly until I tried them out. Sure enough, the dishwasher rinsed and the freezer froze. I give it a few days, but some small spark of hope ignited. How wonderful to be taken seriously and to be treated well for a change. You get so tired of having to fight for every little thing. Maybe my experience-based cynicism will clear up a tad.

Getting Back in the Swing of Things

I have begun walking again in the mornings. I noticed a number of my neighbors out walking their dogs or just exercising. Safety in numbers, and the grounds have lots of green space and wooded sections. The landscaping here is partially done by the management, and partly by the residents - an engaging combination. I appreciate the formal flowerbeds as much as the doorway plantings, everything from tomato plants and herbs to rosebushes.

I have taken to grabbing my CD player and heading out the door a half hour before I need to jump in the shower. The first day, I just walked down our side of the complex, just from our building to the end of the road. Not bad. The next day, I included swinging up by the entrance above our building and then to the end of the road, and each day I have added in another section. I'm not quite at the point of covering the entire loop and back yet, but I am working on it.

Somedays I see frightened little bunnies near the deep bushy wooded section at the back of the property. There are always two or three saucy squirrels and flashes of red and yellow birds flitting about. As I walk briskly along, I glimpse little sections in the wooded areas inviting me to a longer visit. Sunlight glistens on birch bark, beech tree leaves rustle expectantly. There is plenty of exploration waiting.

One of these days I will pick some Queen Anne's Lace. I mentioned to Drew and Kiel how we used to stick them in jars of colored water and watch them turn blue and red and yellow. They had never heard of such a thing. Where did I go wrong educating them!

First, I need to get some foodcoloring. Maybe next weekend when I get paid I will add that to my list of things for the new place next to new paper towel holder (the old one broke in the move) and new cutting board (the old one was pretty yucky so I tossed it). Life is too short not to teach my children to interact with nature as often and as much as possible.

Taking Over

At long last I have time to try and make sense of the jumble that is my new apartment. No more trips, no more rushing to meetings, no more flying off to work in odd outfits. I rise at a leisurely 8am and start in the kitchen. Really, I had gone in to find something for breakfast, but nothing was where I would have put it, had I unpacked.

What began as a minor adjustment to where the spices are housed (not near the heat of the stove! Over by the sink where the baking ingredients should also be) turned into a three hour sorting and switching project. Oh, well. As long as I am at it, let's weed just a bit more - left over remnants of china sets now long broken, old baking trays too stained to clean up, a bent pan I never use because it doesn't heat evenly and stuff burns.

What on earth was I thinking! Oh, right. I didn't pack, so I didn't weed previously. No time like the present. My energy was holding up well, so once I finished the kitchen and unpacked the remaining five or six boxes there, I moved into the living room. The seven or eight boxes there seemed to unpack themselves easily. Drew was still sawing wood in his bedroom (aka snoring), so I kept poking at things, stacking the empty boxes near the door.

Finally, I tackled the front hall closet. What a jumbled mess! I took everything out, rearranged, organized, straightened, and put it all back. Except I needed someone tall to put away the cooler on the top shelf. Time to drag Drew into the fray. Frowzy headed and half asleep, he crawled out of bed at the crack of noon, not complaining. With disgusting ease, he slid the hefty cooler in place, then sat unmoved by my repeated requests to take the empty boxes to the dumpster.

I was on a roll. I headed for my bedroom next and tore through all the boxes on the floor. Feeling rather accomplished, I looked at the nine boxes on the filing cabinet, and I knew the gig was up. They would just have to wait for another day. Not bad though. I finally felt as if I knew where things were and that nothing had gotten lost in the chaos.

3pm. Where had the day gone? I sat in my comfy chair, satisfied and pleased with how airy and filled with sunlight the place was. Of course, the curtains begged to be hung, but I told them they would have to be patient. One thing at a time. Its a good feeling to be in control of stuff, even if it won't last.

The Report

Imagine my surprise when I arrived for my appointment with my oncologist (confirmed by their reminder call) to discover that the entire floor was dark, empty and quiet. Not a sign posted anywhere. Had the rapture come and left me behind? No, wait, even the computers are gone. PCs don't get raptured.

Now, I know they have been raising money for a new building, and talking about that for some time. But surely they wouldn't have moved without telling the patients! Au contraire. I headed back down the elevator to the Information Desk and explained my dilemma to a smiling young man who informed me that - yes! They have moved into their new facility.

Yikes. I am already late. I wondered how far I would have to drive, dreading threading my way back through the parking garage ramps. "Follow me," the young man said. We headed back to the elevators, and to the right, not a hundred yards away, was a hallway that once had been a passage to the medical buildings on the street directly behind. The ceiling overhang was now emblazoned with huge pewter letters announcing "James P Wilmot Cancer Center" - good Lord. Any bigger and it would have bitten me.

I sheepishly registered and got called back almost immediately. Funny, the examining room looked exactly like the one on the old floor. Same gray table, white cabinets and rolling stool. Within minutes, a white coated man entered the room and introduced himself - the new intern. He plopped my chart down on the desk and ran through the history with me, jotting little things from the chart in his notebook.

He looked at the most recent PET scan and lab results. His brow furrowed. "Well, your lymph nodes are the same size as the last test we did. There is no measurable change. I wonder if the glands are in a difficult position. They will probably schedule you for remedial radiation even though the biopsy we took was negative." He continued to read to himself half under his breath, then realizing that I was still in the room, turned my chart around and pointed to the comments of the person who interpreted the scan. Once again the word biopsy raised its ugly head.

I have learned not to pay attention to the interns. They want everything to be serious. I don't bat an eye until I have heard at least one and maybe two doctors say words based on something substantial. The intern left the room to catch up with my oncologist, and a few minutes later, they both breezed into the room.

The good doctor beamed at me, looking young enough to be my daughter. "Good news - everything is the same. Nothing to be concerned over. We'll just keep tracking . . ." She saw my face. "Oh, I know. You don't want to do scans so often. OK, we will push it out to six months but you have to come see me in three and do bloodwork so we can check your CEA levels, OK?"

I beam happily, nodding my agreement while she tells me that if I notice ANY changes - especially pain or fever - I am to come right back immediately, even if I think its nothing. I pay no attention. All I hear is six months - and add my own 'soon to be a year' thought. A longer leash. Good!