Shoppin'!

I dislike shopping, especially when the boys are with me. They either tell me what they think I want to hear, or just agree with everything to hurry the process along because they really want to go to the electronic store. Sometimes they just laugh uproariously and inappropriately (a sure sign the darn thing does not flatter my figure), and other times they try to talk me into styles that I should not be considering. But when you need something, there is little other choice but to go into some store, hunt around, bag something and hopefully return victoriously.

It has been so cold in the Library that I have given up on wearing suit coats and donned sweaters every day. Some of my sweaters I have had a long time, and the extra wear and tear is showing. Some have become stained beyond remedy, and I tossed them, some have shrunk with over washing and they went in the Sal's donation bin. Alas, I found myself with only three viable sweaters, not enough for this extraordinarily cold winter.

My work at the High School Library was up to date enough that I decided to take a morning and see if there are any end of season bargains. After all, the spring line should be coming out soon. It is already end of January. I managed to ditch the boys and headed for my favorite clothing store, almost afraid of what I would find. Some years the colors are all wrong for me. Other years the styles are too young or too old and foppish.

This year though, there was a wide variety, and best of all a 60% and 75% off rack! I poked and prodded through the stacks of styles, fussing because this sweater was pretty but not in my size, this one the right size but the wrong color, that one had a plunging neckline totally inappropriate. At last I found an armful of acceptable candidates and headed for a dressing room.

How amazing it is that things on the hangar take on a whole different personality when you try them on! Stuff I loved on the rack looked awful on the body. Stuff I wasn't sure about but brought along just to see worked so well I selected it. I learned a long time ago that colors under a dressing room light are not always the same as colors in the bright revealing sunlight of day. I found a mirror near the storefront window and held the items next to my face. It was either yuck or wow.

When all was said and done, I had managed to find three warm and cozy sweaters at bargain prices that all looked fairly decent. Not bad for an hour's work. I can now stay warm in fire red, eggplant purple and royal blue.

Not So Routine Follow Up

I used to fuss about the week's wait to find out the results of the PET scans and MRIs. Now I rarely give it a thought. It has been the same old story ad infinitum. Yes, you have glowing spots in your body. Might be cancer. Probably a low grad lymph cancer. Sometimes shows up in different places. Hasn't really gotten large enough for us to do anything about it.



So I only left myself two hours for the appointment, scheduling a class library session for BIO 102 in the afternoon. I should have plenty of time to get there and back and listen politely to the same patter we have been exchanging for awhile. When they decided they would put me in the Conference Room because there were no examining rooms open, I felt justified in thinking that it would be the same conversation we have had often.



But I met a new doctor, one more versed in lymph issues. And I have new shiny spots now, ones worth investigating and somewhat larger (1.5cm is still not large). The two doctors strategized a three pronged two step attack. First I will undergo another MRI, then a gastro procedure during which they will attempt with some ultrasound thing to grab a biopsy of the swollen lymph glands in the stomach/liver area.



I will also have a bone scan since I now have bone involvement in my neck and mandibular area and that will determine whether they will biopsy the bone (yikes!). Oh, yes. Throw in a ton more bloodwork, thank you so much. Based on the findings, treatment (no detail given) will be determined.



Their attitudes were still encouraging and very positive. At best, its a low grade controllable cancer, just like they have been telling me all along. Relatively innocuous, but let's get a solid diagnosis. Really unlikely that this is the rectal cancer returning. Its good news! Fortunately, I didn't have time to process all that. I had to rush back to teach sophomores how to find articles on limnology without killing themselves.



I think I will be Scarlet and wait until tomorrow to worry about it all.

Girl Through the Glass

My office has a floor to ceiling window that looks out onto the Information Commons overtop of the Reference Stacks. People can tell if I am in my office by whether my light is shining through the window. When I first moved in, before there were even books on the Reference shelves, I would stand at my window and gaze out into the Library proper, seeing all that was going on in the world outside my door. I love my window.

I still glance out my window from time to time. Not as much as I used to. I guess I have adjusted to its presence. It seems a normal part of what I experience. I am sure I would be lost without it, but it holds no particular interest to my daily activities.

Not so for my young visitor. She is two going on twenty, filled with life and love and curiosity and shyness all rolled into a bundle of vivacious energy. Her Mom brought her into my office to visit (I begged shamelessly to see her despite the young lady's lack of interest in humoring an old lady). At first she shyly peeked through my doorway, afraid to come in or get too close to someone she barely knew. I had nothing of a toy or food nature to offer her and made myself a mental note to bring in young lady things that might interest her. After all, an enforced visit must hold some small token of fun.

She wandered down the short hall towards the Reference shelves, sneaking around the corner while I chatted with her Mom. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her looking in my window with interest. She stuck her nose squarely against the glass, her fingers pressed palm open next to her face, her eyes rolled upwards as she peered at us through the window.

I wandered over (so as not to scare her), reached out, and touched her hand with mine, the glass between preventing any real contact. She squealed with delight. So began our game. She moved her hand, I moved mine. We fingerprinted patterns all over the window from one side to the other, from the very bottom to as high up as she could reach on her tippy toes. When she pressed her face against the glass again, I beeped her nose with my finger and she laughed as if I had told the joke of the century.

We made spider crawls, worm wiggles, sand swirlies, polka dots and every imaginable pattern we could create as our hands worked together yet apart. Sometimes she led, sometimes I did. We bent down low, stood up tall, reached our arms wide apart. What an odd dance it must have seemed to anyone not playing our game. Her eyes glanced at mine everytime she moved, waiting to see if I would keep up with her, and when I did what she wanted she smiled. When I did the unexpected - going in the opposite direction or switching to my other hand - she laughed a deep loud belly laugh.

What hilarious fun! I have not played at little girl games for a long time. I can't wait until she is old enough to jump rope. What fun we might have, especially if she gets bold enough to step around the glass and actually come into my office! I am so happy she showed me the magic of my window and reminded me to take time to play once in awhile.

Christmas Snow

So what that its the end of January? So what that we have had day after day of freezing weather? So what that its warmer in Alaska than Alabama? So what that the little icons in the weather forecast show falling snow every single day of every single week? The huge snowbanks lining every street and bridge are crusted and dirty gray. The trucks that normally carry away the excess snow have not been around. They are too worn out just keeping up with the new snowfalls. The eye offending banks continue to obstruct vision, depress spirits, encroach on roadways.

Yet I am not tired of winter, certainly not to the point of cabin fever. The dirty snowbanks do not deter me from enjoying the crystal glitter of snow covered fields, the kiss of cold air on my cheeks when I go out, like inhaling pure peppermint.

Today, as it does most every day, it is snowing. But there is something unusual about this snowfall. The sky is blue, the sun shining. The black pavement of road shows its dark face. One might almost think a hint of spring is about. The snow falls gently, not in any hurry, not driven by the wind. There is a curl to the pattern of drifting reminiscent of the snow in a snow globe. Any moment perhaps a horse drawn sleigh might pass, ferrying some loving family to a joyful celebration.

I cannot help but think of Christmas and happiness and loved ones and enticing tables crowded with steaming platters and bowls heaped with delectable foods. A happy snowfall! A refreshing change from the heavy wet sloppy flakes or the tiny line driven stinging needles or the incessant obliterating mounds of white. I love Christmas snow. It makes you believe something wonderful is about to happen. Who knows? Maybe it will!

Breezeway

At risk of being politically insensitive, I want to post a sign on the handicapped doors in the Library Entrance PLEASE DO NOT USE UNLESS NECESSARY!!! Everytime those doors open, they remain a portal for the entire outside to whoosh into the Library and straight to the Reference Desk where I am held captive. More students use the Library as a refuge from the cold since we are about halfway between the farthest north dorms and the farthest south classrooms. We clocked the temps at the desk somewhere in the low sixties. Brrrrr!

It happens the most in this freezing weather because no one wants to take their hands out of their pockets to push the doors open. I am amazed at the number of totally healthy individuals who push that button even when they have nothing in their hands. Force of habit I suppose, but what a price we pay for that in comfort and heating fuel.

Students working in the Information Commons look up in surprise every time the doors swing open and stick in that position for their required three minutes. Then they look at me as if to say "Do something about that! It's COLD in here!"

I agree. Its cold in here, but I have done all that I know to do short of posting that sign and nothing helps. We weather stripped the doors with better materials, had facilities build a little shed to put over the book drop to try and stop cold from creeping in there, discovered a few heater units not functioning and got them on the repair list, convinced the HVAC guys to monitor temperatures at people's work stations and bump up the thermostats, found a gap underneath the windowsills on the south side of the building that will get caulked, turned up the foyer hot air blowers, and had the fireplaces stoked to a higher flame level.

The building overall is warmer and more comfortable, but I cannot stop the doors from standing wide open on and off all day as people push that convenient little button. If only they had installed those doors on the right side where there is less traffic, or built the foyer deeper so we could have offset the opening of the doors. But I cannot fix those things.

I can only shiver and watch as the cold air pours in. We have all taken to wearing shawls at the desk and praying for our shifts to end quickly. I hope the effect will last into the hottest days of summer, but I know better. In summer we were more than comfortable, and I suspect much of our hard earned cool air was pouring OUT the doors into the campus and beyond. It is the price you pay for insisting on manipulating your environment.

Icicles by Moonlight

As winter walks its weary way through January, the icicles dangling from the roof of our apartment building have grown like stubble on a man's unkempt face. The back side of the building harbors the longest icicles, one of them reaching nearly to the ground. I wonder the gutter can support its weight.

Other buildings in our complex do not sport such finery. Perhaps their roofs get more sun which melts the snow faster. Perhaps they have more insulation under their shingles so less stuff melts. Whatever the cause, the glass-like ornaments sparkle in the daylight, a glittering wonderland of artistic rippling frozenness.

So far their presence has not caused any leaking indoors. I am free to enjoy the frosting with out counting the cost. Tonight I stayed long at the Library, worn by the day's demands, unable to leave until my paper for class was completed to my satisfaction. My back ached from being bent over a keyboard for so long, my legs heavy and stiff from hours of not moving around enough.

I opened the door of our cozy abode only to see dirty dishes scattered about, piles of undone laundry, trash not taken out. I am too tired to take care of things before I retire. It is already way past my pumpkin-turning time. It is all I can manage to peel off my coat and wriggle into my nightgown. I slowly make my way to my room longing for the comfort of fuzzy flannel sheets and a prone position.

I glance towards the window, surprised to see so much light. Even though the moon is not full, it's brilliant half slice is not obscured by clouds. It reminds me of those chewey orange slices I used to eat at Grams of a summer's evening when the locusts were singing and the fireflies danced. Tonight the moon's light danced down the delicate icicles hanging just outside my bedroom window, scattering all the hues of the rainbow in every direction.

How beautifully they shimmered! Little diamonds of light cavorted about the ceiling and walls of my room, laughing at my wide eyed trance. It was magic. Instantly the tiredness fled from my limbs and the heaviness lifted. How amazing to have my very own laser light show right in my own room! Some nights are pure magic.

By the Skin of His Neck

I made a quick stop at Wegmans to pick up a couple items. As I swung down the cereal aisle towards the milk coolers, I encountered a young man about 4 or 5 who was retrieving items for his Mother.

He had pulled down a box of instant oatmeal - maple flavored - from a shelf just a bit over his head with studied efficiency. He carefully tucked the box under his chin, and with head down, headed in the general direction of his Mom's cart (Mom was perusing the yogurt and cheese displays, not paying any particular attention).

I had stopped my cart in mid aisle to let him pass. I am pretty sure he saw my boots, but not much else. As he inched past me, barely shuffling one sneaker clad foot past the other, I could hear him chugging away like a train, his arms pumping as if in full motion.

It made me smile to see such industry and concentration, so I kept watching for a few minutes. Apparently he had permission to retrieve several items from the cereal aisle, but he never selected more than one thing at a time. A smart shopper would have loaded their arms with all the necessary things and made one trip. But a creative artist could never do such a thing.

Each item was ferried to the cart via some different imaginary mode of transportation. I recognized truck, boat, plane, and car. The last one puzzled me. He bent from the waist and stiffened his legs and sort of ambled very slowly, occasionally spitting with a "pa-tooey" sound in the general direction of the floor. What on earth?

As I stood studying him, he glanced up at me, grinned, and mouthed the word "Camel." Ahh! Yes, of course. I got it as soon as he said so. I nodded my head and giggled. He dumped the box in the cart, offered me a quick wave, and disappeared around the corner, his Mom zipping him away quickly towards the produce.

How fascinating. No wonder children laugh so much. No wonder I don't laugh enough. I wondered how his technique would work with the eggs I was lifting from the cooler.

RPO Shostakovich

I don't often get to hear the orchestra, but I knew after the PET scan that I would need a bit of soul medicine. And who can resist Shostakovich? For that I am willing to suffer through a Nielsen Flute Concerto. I buy a ticket online at the last minute, waiting to make sure I will feel well enough to go. Friday after the PET test I was feeling fine right up until 5:45 as I was leaving work. As I stepped through the Library front doors, it was as if someone had pulled the plug and it was all I could do to make myself walk to the car and get home.

But the brick wall had passed, and I had completed most of my homework and volunteer work, so I indulged in a bit of musical medicine. My assigned "cheap seat" was on the main floor all the way to the left and just under the balcony overhang. I could see fine since there were many empty seats in the rows in front of me. I relaxed in the red velvet seat waiting for the music to begin.

Two women next to me struck up a conversation, the older one relating how she had sat next to the conductor, Jahja Ling, on a plane flying into Rochester. He had asked her what there was to do in Rochester, and for the life of her, she could not think of anything to suggest except to shop at Wegmans! Wow. How sad is that?

The Nielsen piece was what I expected, a pyrotechniques virtuoso thing and of course, the flautist was stellar. Just not something I was needing at the moment although there were moments of loveliness here and there. I wandered about a bit during intermission as they reset the stage, and decided that since no one was seated in the primo seats on the main floor, I would move to a better location for the second half of the concert. I had just settled into my center/center vantage point (and far from the rose perfumed drenched grand dame seated near my previous digs) when they flashed the lights - including the huge chandelier! I have never seen a chandelier flash its lights. It was a bit eerie.

Then the conductor was onstage, baton poised, and at his gesture the music began. I wanted to be sucked in, to be carried away, to be Russian. My battered soul longed to cry passionately, to cleanse the heart's brokenness, to plumb the depths of the world worn yet eternally hopeful. With each significant gesture of the conductor, I ached to be touched, to be understood, for my voice to be recognized among the vibrant sounds falling from the wailing strings.

Every movement led me to believe that I would get the extraordinary cuisine in the next line, the next phrase. The performance was solid, note perfect (save a horn kerflalful or two), nuanced. The pianississimo of the strings so soft you wondered how you could hear it, the fortississimo of the brass full and bright, the delicate duets enticing. Yet they did not take me where I should have gone.

The phrase "white Russian" crossed my mind. We in America do not allow ourselves to feel passions, so how could we communicate it in our musics? When we are sad, we take an antidepressant. When we are joyous, we are accused of being manic and we take depricote. When we are angry, we go to anger management class. When we fall in love, we do not allow ourselves to reveal the depth as a protection against being hurt deeply. When someone we love dies, we take tranquilizers. Dmitry goosestepped through revolutions without even alcohol to numb his bleeding heart.

Perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps not. The orchestra received a standing ovation, a recognition of the skill of the instrumentalists, an appreciation for their work to bring us good sounds. I do not give a standing ovation unless I am either feeling very generous, or the performance touched me deeply, moved me, spoke to me. It requires that rare combination of composer who knows how to speak movingly and musicians who know how to interpret perfectly.

Tonight I do not know whether the composer mumbled or the musicians translated confusingly. I only know I came for the filet mignon and I came away with the hamburg. Still, it was a treat. I always enjoy a good orchestral wash of sound.

PET Scan

My friend picked my up at the apartment right on time with her car all warm and toasty. I have done everything I can to ensure that the test results will be clear. No caffeine, no carbs, no alcohol, no aspirin products, nothing by mouth except drink 2 glasses of water (Kiel said they might as well throw in no firearms!) etc. etc. Stay warm, no physical exercise. I went down the checklist. Everything followed to the letter.

Once again, my agitation about the dye thing crops up and I try not to fuss about it. My friend reassures me that it will be fine. She reminds me that I have a mouth and I can use it! Check in at registration, fill out a form (the receptionist hands me a copy of the form I filled out last time for reference), wait a few minutes.

They call me back, I double check about the dye thing, I am reassured. No dye. I remind them of the need for a small needle, they say thanks for the reminder. The usual stick to check sugar levels, I bleed all over. Am I taking Coumadin? No. The aspirin regimen. Here comes the IV. What's this? They have no trouble finding a vein. Needle is in first stick no problem. Neat! That Lance Armstrong Y program must be helping more than I thought.

I lean back in the recliner, swaddled in the toasty warmth of three blankets and sigh. The lights are dim, the door shut. All I hear is the ticking of the clock. I am not tired enough to sleep - they should do these tests in the evening if they want sleep. I decide to take my own medicine.

I write Prescriptions for the cancer patients who receive the digital picture frames with the Lord's Prayer, Psalm 23, and Amazing Grace on them. I prescribe taking three times a day - in the morning on rising, in the afternoon after lunch, and in the evening before retiring. Think on the words that have seen so many through difficulties and pain. Build up your heart and mind for the barren places. I don't have the luxury of being allowed to view pictures, but I can think on the words.

Funny how your mind will not stay on track sometimes. I have been particularly interested lately in meditations on the Lord's Prayer as written by notable spiritual leaders of the past - Martin Luther and John Wesley and Tertullian and others. So I begin - "Our Father" and immediately I recognize that it is not "My Father" and that I am not alone. I have a huge family of sisters and brothers who support me with their prayers and good blessings. And I begin thinking about my Mom and my sister Jael and my friends who have stayed so connected with me throughout this cancer battle.

Rats. Off track. I begin again. "Our Father" and I start thinking about all the things the word father can bring to mind. Off track again. Start over. "Our Father which art in heaven." So what is heaven like anyways? I recall some dreams I have had, some verses of the Bible that talk about streets of gold and no pain or crying there. Wait. I am supposed to be praying the Lord's Prayer. "Our Father . . . " Too soon the nurse pokes her head in the door. It is time for the test.

More new stuff. They take the IV out before I go in the tubes. So much better not to have to be careful about how to position your hand. And they have a special pillow that relieves the stress on your arms. You still have to put your arms over your head, but not all the way down to the table. Only part way back. Sooooooo much better.

I continue my attempts to pray the Lord's Prayer, knowing that the test will take a good half hour in and out of the tubes. I still do not get to the end before they whirr me out and set me free. Same instructions. You are radioactive, don't hug any puppies or babies. Don't get close to people for at least two hours, double flush after using the facilities, and make sure you wash your hands thoroughly.

Yes. I got it. I wonder if the Lance Armstrong program will help with the tiredness and fatigue that usually hit me a week or so after the test? Maybe!

Divisi

It's one of the hardest things to do. That's what my friend, who is an extraordinary pianist of the 'world renowned concerto-with-orchestra par excellence' variety, told me when I mentioned what a hard time I was having running a choir rehearsal without an accompanist.


I am NOT an extraordinary pianist, but I can muddle through for the most part. It's challenging to focus on both playing the right notes with the right phrasing and nuances, and listening to the choir to hear what is happening in their lines and notes, not to mention giving them the direction they need for both unity and expression. You have to divide your brain and assign each part to oversee one aspect. At the same time, they have to clearly know exactly what is happening on the whole.

For the last few months, as we search for an accompanist at church, I of necessity sat at the keyboard of our wonderful grand piano during rehearsals so that I could play while directing. We are able to engage someone to play for the services on Sunday, but their schedules did not allow for helping at the rehearsals.

The more I am required to do both, the easier it becomes. While by far I am not great at it (that would take years, focus, and an excellent coach), I am growing more comfortable with what I can do to help the choir in the best way possible. I am discovering little changes that make huge differences. Still, we end up working more on the piece once Sunday morning comes and we have the day's pianist to assist. Then we can put in place those simple touches that make all the difference. Our "warm-up" is really much more than warming up!

Tonight was different. We worked - really worked - on five upcoming pieces. Something just clicked and the piano demands didn't seem to get in the way. I could clearly hear where lines were struggling, where nuances were missing, where text was unclear. At the same time, the clinkers on the keyboard were fewer and farther between.

I wonder if my brain is developing the necessary divisi all musicians must have. At class last summer, one of our challenges was to conduct a three pattern with our left hand while conducting a four pattern with our right hand, and snapping our fingers at each beat. Then we either counted or said the alphabet while doing so - triple divisi! And once we mastered that, we would say the alphabet backwards or count down from 100. Go ahead - try it. Its not as simple as it sounds.

Just when you felt like you had it all under control and happening as it should - you found your smooth groove - the professor would speed up the tempo until we all collapsed on the floor laughing our selves silly because we just couldn't keep up. You've heard of divide and conquer, but I suspect this is much more like divide and master!

Meltdown

I don't know why this PET scan should be any different from the dozens I have undergone in the past, but it is. It started when the Imaging Center called to tell me that I needed to be pre-medicated due to my allergy to the IV contrast. Wait! I have had nearly a dozen PET scans done there in that facility in the past two years, and I remind them every time I have one that I not only am allergic to the contrast, but the pre-medication is ineffective in stemming the reactions I have. I have been told by my anaesthesiologist not to allow anyone to administer the dye even with the pre-meds. Did they forget? Did they even look at the huge RED stickers plastered all over my chart?



The voice mail shakes me up. The second voice mail from the oncologist's office asking for the name of my pharmacy didn't help me either. I would have expected the doctor to know my situation. Surely she remembers, after all, I see her almost every month! I procrastinate responding to either message. Maybe if I ignore it, things will revert to my state of normal. I know better. I just don't want to deal with it.

At last I call the Imaging Center. I explain that I am returning their call, but the receptionist has no idea what I am talking about. She routes me to several different voices until at last I find someone who knows the story. I patiently explain that even with pre-medication I have had severe reactions to the IV contrast and that I have been instructed not to undergo administration of it again. She ruffles papers for a minute or so, then cheerfully agrees with me.

"Yes, I see it now. Its clearly written right here - no IV contrast. Not to worry, we'll just do the PET part without the IV stuff." I want to smack her upside the head for riling me up without realizing how her lack of paying attention has caused me angst. But I resist. Surely everything is set now. Except I know that I still have to talk with the oncologist's nurse.

I sigh and find the number. Once again I am routed throughout the kingdom until someone finally knows what I am responding to. But this nurse is testy with me. "I can't just cancel that order until I speak with the doctor." I ask if she is looking at my chart and if she sees the red stickers plastered all over it. My question does nothing to dissuade her from her course. She will call me back. Click.

OK. Fine. I stew for a few minutes, then decide to focus on something more pleasant. Several hours later she calls me to tell me that the doctor has cancelled the order for the IV contrast and the barium with contrast. I will have the plain barium and the radiation glucose with contrast, doctor's orders. I am stunned. I begin to protest, to ask if that is what I have been having, but the woman has no time for my fear. "I TOLD the doctor exactly what you said and that's what she ordered." End of conversation. Goodbye.

I do a nose dive tail spin crash land. No! No contrast. I will die the next time I get that stuff. I won't go. I won't take it. I will simply refuse. Or maybe I should just let them give it to me, and when I die my kids can sue them royally - oh, wait. Aren't you getting just a bit carried away? Are you really that untrusting and paranoid? Shouldn't you find out the truth first?

Yes, of course. Nothing bad is going to happen here. You have a brain and you will use it and speak up until you know the story. Take a deep breath. You haven't come this far for one little snafu to do you in. Besides, you have a lot of stuff to do before you kick off.

Knowing all that doesn't prevent the tears from flowing. I haven't cried about medical stuff in awhile. I should be used to gazing over the precipice of life by now. I am required to do so everytime they run this test. But I am not used to it. I don't think I ever will be. The tears fall quietly for a few minutes as I work it out. Its OK for me to cry. I have post-traumatic stress syndrome brought on by cancer. These things happen.

The Inauguration

I have watched a number of presidential inaugurations in my short lifetime. The first president I remember is Eisenhower, but the first inauguration I remember, contrary to my children's humor, was not Lincoln's but Kennedy's. There was so much excitement about children in the White House and Jackie's prowess as an interior decorator. Perhaps it was my age that made that inauguration seem so exciting. Perhaps the whole country was in a place of expectancy.



I watched the inaugurations of Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton and Bush with no less emotion, holding back those inevitable tears that sting the edges of my eyes when I am filled with pride in my country despite its issues, honored that we still function with civility and some modicum of integrity. This year was no different. I watched the stuff of history being forged with intentionality and positioning, with nods to those cultural institutions that have survived and thrived on the ravages of time.



Barack will be the 11th president under whose leadership I will have lived. As inaugurations go, this one was simple and elegant with thoughtful touches. I am sure the planners and designers worked long hours to make sure every detail would go smoothly. It just doesn't take all that long to promise to support the Constitution of the United States with words, but it takes a lifetime to support it in deeds.



Hope runs high among my friends and colleagues. Much prayer is offered for his success. May the coming days bring solutions to the problems, unity to the divided, and peace to the weary.

TV Trickery

I rarely pay any attention to the big screen TVs running constantly in the Study Cafe. The sound is off and only closed captioning tells the viewer what is happening, so its just background clutter as far as I am concerned. The college selected one news channel and one sports channel and they are permanently set unless we need to manually change them for special events.

My first suspicion that something was awry was when several of my staff told me that the Cartoon Network was playing on one of the screens. How could that be? It takes three staff a half hour to figure out how to change those channels when we have special events, even with the written directions in front of us!

I know the younger generation is tech savvy, but without the two remotes, they would not be able to change anything. If they merely touched the buttons on the screen, it throws the screen out of the right network and all you get is fuzzy static. Curious. I sputtered grumpily as I dragged out the instructions and fiddled with the two boxes hidden behind the screens. I finally got it reset and went back to the desk only to be told five minutes later that the cartoon network was on one of the screens again!

One of my staff suggested that with a universal remote a person could probably figure out how to gain access, so we scoped the place to see if some joker was playing games with us, switching things around just to take us for a ride. We couldn't find anyone but a single young lady who had been around both times we were in the cafe, and the staff person vouched for her. I was suspicious but thoroughly steeped in innocent until proven guilty.

I finally called Media Services after the third round, and they told me they had encountered this before. No student would be lucky enough to figure out the frequencies, but sometimes a radio frequency or laser beam from outside the building could interfere. They would check it out and get back to me. Feeling somewhat restored that I wasn't being jerked around by a malicious student, we spent the better part of the morning messing with the screens whenever the channel decided to go rogue.

After lunch, I saw I had missed a call from one of the IT guys. Even though he had not left a message, I called him back - I try my best to jump through hoops for the IT guys since we are so tech dependent. Turns out, they were having trouble with getting one of the channels over in their hub, so they were monkeying with the set up and hadn't realized it was affecting us! Mystery solved. I put the remotes back in the locked cabinet with a giggle. A story to tell my children.

Death Song of the Amaryllis

I never saw anything expire so beautifully. My glorious pink and white lily look alike flower was dying. Oh, the greenery was firm and bright, exuding life and health. But the delicate four flowers crowning the top of the thick center stalk were drooping, wilting, nay - pining away like some young maiden awaiting the return of her promised beloved who never survived the first battle of some pointless war.





At first it was almost imperceptible, the slight downward turn of the floral faces. No shriveling up and turning brown for these fair ladies. They merely turned parchment thin and transparent, mirror images of what once had been youth and strength. Now, like elderly ladies wearing a bit too much rouge to cover up thinning hairlines and wrinkled brows, they sank further and further downward until their gaze met the brown earth below, until they, stooped and hunchbacked, an ancient shadow of their former splendor, struggled to retain enough grace and spine to clutch for every last scrap of life.





I expect any day now I will find they have finally let go their grip on life and fluttered helplessly to the floor where their tired bodies will be swept away like so much clutter. I will be free to cut the stalk from its place and encourage the green leaves to grow strong and vigorous, feeding the hefty bulb, storing up the necessary nutrients so that next year the new generation of beautiful ladies might reign in their turn. I empathize with their stubborn and persistent fight to wrestle as much life as can be wrested from where you are hung. It is an honorable endeavor.

Library Assessment

The Library at the school Drew attends has been non functional for almost two years now. After the professional librarian resigned, they had a part time temporary librarian who was promised a permanent position. But the position never materialized due to the sour budget and turn over in the administration. I tried to volunteer last year, however my offer feel on deaf ears and uncomprehending minds. Fine. I can wait. Library, after all, is what I do these days.



This year, at open house, I cornered the new elementary principal and reiterated my offer. I can't come during the week but I can restore order on the weekends if only you will find a way to let me in the building (it seems so simple to me!). OK. He will look into it. Months later, I got a quick email asking if I were still interested. I am. The arrangements are made. (We have to do 10 hours of volunteer work, and this is my preference for serving).



I walk up two flights of stairs, down a long hall and around the corner through a double door. The room is filled with Macs and old furniture. The walls are lined with shelves of books. Several tables overflow with returns. He is just looking to get the books back on the shelf so people can find things. I ask if they need to be checked back in on their circulation system. He has no idea. Then he is gone.



I survey the situation, sizing up what needs attention the most. The room itself is in need of a thorough cleaning. Gum and candy wrappers lie strewn about. The books are dusty and there is schmuck here and there. First I sort the returns, trying to figure out their shelving system. Dewey. Most college libraries are Library of Congress classification, but I can deal with Dewey. They have separated out many small collections - the series here, elementary fiction there, high school non-fiction across the room, picture books on the short shelves, first readers on the back side.



I manage to get the books all back on the shelves. Apparently there is no longer an online system for checking materials in or out. There was also no manual card system for that either. Then I vacuum and straighten the best I can. I make a long list of things that need to be done, not the least of which is cleaning! I ask for another time to be set up, and to talk with anyone who had anything to do with running the library in the past, volunteers included.



Suddenly I find myself chatting with a committee I am chairing. The list of things to do grows longer. We are underway. Not ready to open the doors yet, but taking baby steps to restoring what has been lost. It feels good - really good - to use the knowledge and training the good Lord has provided for a worthy cause. I think I am going to enjoy this!

Carrot Juice Capers

After some experimentation, I find I can tolerate one shot glass of carrot juice once a week unless I am dealing with some symptom or other. At least its a start albeit a very tiny step. So I add that into the mix of strategies to gain strength and stamina.

Meanwhile, back to the drawing board. Now I am working on fruit smoothies. I figure I am pretty good with yogurt and bananas, so I add a tiny splotch of frozen orange juice and a handful of frozen strawberries or blueberries and a bit of water. So far the first batch went down well and didn't give me any trouble.

I'm a bit leery of pushing too much too fast, so next week I will try again and see what happens. If I tolerate this better, maybe the healthy components of the fruit will help me progress to tolerating the carrot juice better! Hey, it could happen.

White Rain

Has something gone awry with my eyes? Everything looks blurry and faint. I stand at the Reference Desk and squint out the North windows at the parking lot I know is there hidden behind the white veil of what I can only assume is more snow, snow so fine it appears as frozen fog. I sigh. Old fashioned winters were way more fun when I was ten and rolling around outside in a snowsuit!

I soon forget the winter weather outside as I am drawn into Library business. Our new Leisure Reading collection is taking shape on the shelves - a new plan through Brodart Books to bring the cream of current fiction and non fiction from the best seller lists to our patrons without having to spend a ton of money or add flash-in-the-pan materials to our collection permanently. Staff are drooling already and I suspect this will become a popular site.

Our monthly booksale cart is rolled out and soon attracts book lovers who battle with the idea of expanding their already too large home libraries with yet another enticing title. Volunteers need paperwork, students being promoted need training, grad students deep in research seek that one elusive publication - yes, it is pleasant work.

Suddenly it is time to go home. The Library stays open until midnight, but I don't have to be here so late this evening. I pull on my worn boots with the cracks in the creases when I bend my toes, slide my scarf tightly around my neck, snap my new warm black coat all the way up and prepare to step out into the cold tundra of outdoors.

I push open the first door in the vestibule and greedily absorb the blast of warmth from the blowers overhead. I steel myself for the inevitable. I slowly push the outside door open and step onto the veranda still bathed in daylight - what a delight to see daytime has not yet fled its orbit.

But what is this? The air is still white and gauzy with what I had earlier judged to be snow. Yet it washes my face in a refreshing wetness I had not anticipated. I see now that although it has the color of snow, it is really just water. A sideways rain if you will. Not exactly a cloud mist, but not flakes either. It feels wonderful on my cheeks and I lower my fur lined hood to take it in.

Yes, its still pretty cold, but it is not the wind driving the whiteness sidewards. I cannot explain it really. Just that white rain is sliding past my amazed eyes with all the candor of nature. No one is paying attention. But it seems quite miraculous to me. I will not hurry to the confines of my car. I will enjoy this little lift while it lasts. I may not see white rain again for another 50 years!

Drummed Out - Almost

How sad. I had my exit review for the Lance Armstrong exercise program today. I am expiring. Has it really been twelve weeks already? I barely got to go. Between crazy schedules, being sick, holidays, kid stuff, I missed almost as many times as I made it.

I am surprised at how much of an improvement I have made. I don't feel it, and I gained a few pounds lately, but I can press more weight with both arms and legs than I could when I first started. I know it is that Gulik Gym. Its so easy, but it really improves your strength and I have to admit that exhaustion has been less of an issue lately.

I talk with my trainer. How can I keep going? I can't afford a membership. She gives me a form to fill out for financial assistance. I doubt that I will qualify. She takes me to see the program director. He asks if I like the program. Do I want to continue? Yes! I would love to be able to keep coming.

Not to worry. He assures me that an important part of the cancer survivor program is to find a way for me to continue. They don't want to just cut me off. He will extend my access while they process the paperwork. I am pretty sure he will find a way for me to keep coming. I am so happy! I have every confidence that something will work out. Yeah!

Sub Zero Temps

No place is warm these days. I sit at the Reference Desk wrapped in blankets and scarves, typing with my gloves on. My staff are freezing at their desks and you can see your breath when you work behind the Circulation Desk. Somehow the geothermal system that has served so well until now is struggling to keep up these days. Sixteen below with the wind chill doesn't help.

Last year it never stayed this cold over a three day period, so the system never got a proper testing. The facilities guys are hopping to coax every ounce from the system, turning on valves, resetting inner zones, shaking their heads as they stare at the stone cold baseboard heating units still pristine white in their newness.

I crank up the foyer heaters in the hopes of somehow overcoming the continual opening of the handicapped doors. Everyone uses them these days because they are too cold to take their hands out of their pockets. Those doors swing wide every few minutes, remaining open just long enough to swoosh frozen air all the way to the Reference Desk, showering me with more fuel to make my teeth chatter. I sure wish they had figured out a way to offset those doors to prevent a straight shot to the outside.

We threaten to take pictures of everyone wrapped in winter longjohns while working at their stations and send them to the president. The weather forecaster tells us that its warmer in Alaska than in Arkansas. I believe him, but it doesn't make me want to move to Alaska or Arkansas. I heat a cup of water and snuggle it under my blanket at the desk. A sip or two helps, but the heat in my lap brings my core temperature up to tolerable. Tomorrow I will bring my hot water bottle and my heat in the microwave rice filled sock.

A colleague shows me the inch of ice on the inside of his windowsill. I'd throw another log on the fire if they weren't fake. I rotate in and out of the cafe and reading room, toasting my buns by the cheery yellow flames - at least they don't die away. Here's hoping the cold snap moves on soon. Or they figure out how to tweak the system more productively!

White Out

I had been sitting at the Reference Desk for several hours. My behind was aching from sitting so long and my neck stiff from craning to see over the monitor in case anyone needed assistance. Time to get up and move a bit. Some days are so busy I don't get a chance to sit. Today is not one of them. I stand and stretch, working the kinks and stiffness from my limbs. Deep breath in. Exhale. Hardly anyone is in the Information Commons. The Library is unusually quiet. Well, it is early in the semester, this is only the first day of class. No one has assignments or papers. I don't blame them for not coming into the Library.

Then I glanced towards the windows. It was as if someone suddenly covered them with white cotton batting. Every inch of outside was hidden in white. Not snowflakes, snow air! You could not see even an inch. I know there are cars parked in the parking lot, but I cannot see a fender or luggage rack or headlight. No wonder no one is in the Library. Who would go out on a day like this! The Circulation Supervisor walked past and stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw hanging open. "Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed. "When did it start snowing?"

I had no idea. We chatted for a few minutes, and as suddenly as it had started, the whiteout ended. The sky was blue and clear, the sun shining. If I hadn't had a witness, I would have thought I had imagined the whole thing. What a strange winter.

Belle

You can't hate her, even though she is loud and obnoxious and spoiled. Her voice pierces straight through your flesh to your raw nerves and twists them in a knot in a split second. She has one volume - loud! But her golden curls are so bouncy and her eyes bluer than Glacier Lake in its most pristine season. Her curiosity knows no limit and she has apparently never been discouraged from exploration of any kind.

Her Mother was a quiet woman obviously overwhelmed by the energy of her young daughter. They were waiting for Dad to locate some books for a paper he was working on, and you could almost hear the Mom praying for him to be done quickly as she watched her little angel dart from chair to stairs to table to desk to fireplace to computer to shelves. I doubt she spent more than two consecutive seconds in any single location.

Her constant motion was narrated by her continuous dialogue. She never seemed to take a breath at any point and her brain ran non-stop in logical and illogical directions all at once, hypertexting from subject to subject like a summer butterfly chasing the scent of pollen. "I'm sitting in this chair in this big white chair and I'm climbing a mountain do you see this big big big mountain I can climb and run to the very very very tippy top and fight the big bears who live on the top of this mountain and now I am escaping the big bad bears and sliding down down to the meadow where the book people live who want me to eat them up like a snick snack yum yum yum but I have to spit the sour ones out and I spit spit spit into the big deep pit and I run away yuck to a pretty place with lots of flowers and fairies and magic dust and -"

I was tired just listening to her non-stop patter! Everything she made up related to what she was doing, but the words just ran out of her head past her mouth into the air without her even knowing she was doing it or that she should stop. I felt sorry for the Mom who wearily slumped into the nearest chair and held her head in her hands, shutting her eyes. She sighed a deep shuddering sigh.

People who were trying to work in the Library were beginning to get a bit antsy, watching the little girl with guarded looks and under their breath grins. You couldn't hate her, she was too innocent and fluffy to hate. I wandered upstairs and selected a few books from our juvenile reading collection that the education majors use and hauled them downstairs along with a pad of paper and a handful of pencils.

I stepped in front of her as she was dancing back towards her Mom and handed her a boldly colored picture book which she took and trotted over to the coffee table to look at. Her conversation continued non stop for awhile as she flipped from page to page. I was beginning to suspect someone had fed this little darling a bit too much sugar. As soon as she finished the book she tossed it to the floor and just as quickly I handed her another. Same drill. Flip, flip, flip, toss. Another book. This went on for about ten minutes. She was at least stationary and only bothering the people near the chairs with her chatter.

When we had gone through all the books I handed her the paper and pencils. I was concerned that she not scribble all over everything, but she kept it on the coffeetable at least. I could scrub that later. After ten more minutes, she began to slow a bit. There were pauses between the sentences. I picked up the books and began to actually read TO her while she chattered. While she never did sit completely still, her conversation became quieter and she seemed to try to listen. I read only about three words per page, making some of it up just to be able to move on. The Reader's Digest version of a picture book!

At long last her Dad appeared and picked her up. The minute she laid her head on his shoulder, she shut her eyes and fell soundly asleep! Her beautiful curls a mass about her angelic face, her eyelids fluttering slightly, her breathing steady and quiet. Her Mom never said a word. Just picked up her purse and followed the Dad and sleeping child out the front door. I don't know about her, but *I* was exhausted!

Pat's Heart

Way up north on Long Pond Road, before you reach the YMCA, after you pass the Carriage House apartments, on the right hand side of the street as you are heading north, there sits a small brick house back some distance from the road. The front yard is almost a field, and you can barely see the roof of the little bungalow. I have passed it many times in my jaunts to the Y.

Today as I headed in that direction, I glanced towards the house, now nearly buried beneath mounds of snow. I glimpsed an arch of red lights. "Hum," I thought. "They still have their Christmas lights up. Must be some sort of yard ornament." Nothing unusual about that. Many houses still sport their holiday decor. Its been a bit cold to take lights down, and spirits can use the cheerful encouragement. I looked again to see if I could tell what sort of ornament it was.

Yes, two red arches with green between them. Some sort of blue too. Eyes back on the road, then glance again as I draw parallel to the yard. Not a Christmas ornament! A HEART! A Valentine! I look again. P - A - T it spells out in blue-green-blue letters. I love Pat! How sweet! How romantic. There for all the world to read, a declaration of love. I wonder how it is received by Pat. Is Pat a man or a woman? Has Pat had a difficult year or do they put this up every year? Is Pat happy to see it or embarrassed? Young or old? Child or lover? So many unanswered questions!

One last fleeting glance before I pass the perfect heart with all its puzzle. Good luck, Pat. I wish you all the love your heart can hold.

January Moonlight

Kiel came to pick me up from work, and remarked on how bright it was outside despite the fact that the sun had long retired and the moon was high overhead. Ah, yes! A January moon! Perfect for those late night excursions to sled down the perfect sledding hill or just take a long walk. Almost full, the light was reflected by the banks of snow mounded about, setting a magical exciting atmosphere inviting one to come and play.

Not for me this year. I have had my times of magic and romance underneath a January moon. I will have more times of love and happiness underneath a January moon. This year? I am still recuperating from my New Year's Resolution. I am sad that I can't make the fairy take journey into the wintry night. I stand in my bedroom staring up at the delightful orb, remembering the tobogganing trip when we nearly slammed into a tree and drank hot chocolate around the blazing campfire when I was in high school.

I remember the January our youth group did an around town treasure hunt, finding tidbits here and there from the still open stores up and down the moonlit Main Street in Johnstown, our cheeks kissed red by the jovial wind. And the year we built a huge snowfort in the backyard and all the neighborhood kids gathered for the be all and end all snowball fight of the century, our snowsuits glistening in the moonlight, our mittens soaked, our breath lingering frosty white in clouds about us.

Great times. Great memories. I will add more to the collection. Next year. Next year for sure. This year, I manage to take a bag of trash to the dumpster as a lame excuse to just be out in the moonlight for a minute, a mere nod to my desires. When I come back inside, the weatherman is saying that the moon is the brightest it has been for a long time, owing to the particular tilt of orbit and position of the sun. Rats. It will just have to be better next year. Plan now. Call your friends. Make a night of it. These times fade quickly into the oblivion of daily drudgery and the daylight of common sense.

Ghost Trees

Snow yesterday. Snow today. Snow tomorrow - its like living in the Arctic Tundra! Today the snow filtered down driven about by blustery winds in fits and starts. One moment blue sky, the next whiteness swirled through the air. When at last I headed home after a long day of work and a delightful choir practice, I was suddenly struck by all the white trees lining Buffalo Road.

Snow stuck to the bark like flocking to a piece of flannelgraph. Everywhere were weird ghostly forms like frozen people with arms outstretched, a Halloween nightmare still life. Even the telephone poles and street lights were plastered white and street signs rendered illegible by a frozen coating of snow. How strange.

Driving became a slow motion ride through a snow globe like the one Mom gave me for Christmas. All that was missing was my snow globe's musicbox tune "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Or maybe this was some sci fi scene just before the horrible truth dawns. Hum. I must be tired. I don't usually spout such bizarre ideas.

Anyway, I think we are in for an old fashioned winter with tons of snow. Haven't had one of those in years.

Amaryllis Surprise!

Before Christmas, one of my friends gave me an amaryllis bulb kit. Such a small square box! The picture on the front sported a tall stemmed bright red flower of gargantuan size, and when I took the bulb out of the box, I certainly believed it could turn into such a huge flower. The kit included a pot almost the same size as the bulb, and a small brown disc of what they claimed was enough potting soil to do the job. I was skeptical.

I followed the directions, and sure enough - add water and POOF! Enough dirt to fill the pot and bury the bulb two thirds down in soil. I watered thoroughly and set it in a pie pan atop the china cabinet. For a week or so, nothing stirred. Then one morning I noticed that the dry husks at the top of the bulb looked a bit green. On closer inspection, I discovered a tiny green shoot making its way out of the bulb towards the light. Life!

Christmas came and went and the plant continued to grow. I faithfully turned the pot everyday to keep the plant from growing lopsidedly toward the sun streaming in the kitchen window. One morning, at the top of one of the dark green shoots I noticed a cluster of pods forming. Surely soon there would be a bright red cluster of flowers to enjoy. I couldn't wait. I kept checking every morning for some glint of redness, but still no bloom appeared.

This morning, one of the flowers opened - a glorious PINK and white! How absolutely beautiful! It took me off guard since I hadn't even considered any other color than the one printed on the side of the box. How much more wonderful. I can't wait until the other pods open. Its like an early Easter. Even the boys remarked on how pretty it is. I hope I can keep it going for years. What a delight. Thank you thank you thank you.

He's Back

Kiel went to visit his brother and help out playing Santa in the mall -earn a bit of pocket money -before Christmas. It was good to see him when we went to Lake George for the family gathering at Mom's. I concentrated on my siblings while I was there - some of whom I had not seen in some time! It was a blessing to see everyone, remark on how the kids are growing up and maturing, catch up with house renovations and buildings, see pictures, connect.

I was a bit irked that Kiel decided to stay awhile longer, and ended up driving back to Rochester with Drew only. Not that Drew didn't appreciate some time off from sharing the bedroom. He was at one and the same time happy to have some space and lonely without the company. I'm sure Kiel also appreciated a break from the demands of Mom and the irritations of younger brother - not that we fuss about such stuff, but our apartment is quite small and we are rather on top of each other.

Although I appreciated the lower grocery bills and the unusual quiet, it bugged me that I felt such a disappointment about him staying. Perhaps I am getting soft in my old age. I have always encouraged the boys to find their own paths, to get out there on their own, to do what they feel God is calling them to do. Well, what can you do? I swallowed the unusual feeling and jumped in to the tasks I wanted to accomplish before the semester's demands would keep me from getting stuff done.

When Kiel's brother finally brought him back, I think he was as happy to be home as we were to see him. Of course, the living room has exploded with luggage and clothes and klediments. There are bags full of odds and ends everywhere, not to mention the overflowing laundry basket. Almost as soon as I got home from work we headed to Wegmans to get food (ouch for the checking account). Now I'm a bit distressed that he's back! Good Lord, I am never happy.

When the kids were babies I couldn't wait for them to get out of diapers, eat real food, walk by themselves. Now I love to be around my grandbabies because they are still in diapers, eat baby food, need to be held and cuddled. This is the same thing. I will focus on the good things about the time we have together now and not be in a hurry for him to either come or go. Just live in the moment and be happy.

Broken Resolution Already!

I have been quite faithful to keep my New Year's Resolution of drinking an ounce of pasteurized carrot juice every morning. I have almost come to look forward to the sweet thinness of the orange ambrosia. But alas! Yesterday I began to feel the effects along the lines of frequent bathroom visits and sore bottom cheeks.

Today I have true cramping and quite hefty pain in my left side that begins in the back around the kidney area and proceeds directly through my abdomen and out the front just beneath my ovary. I know its not kidney stone pain because its positional - I can get into comfortable positions and the pain is barely noticeable. Heat also helps. Its become a recognizable symptom. I know when fiber is stuck in my innerds I will feel this way until things pass. Mostly I wait it out.

Phooey. I thought for sure that since the juice is cooked the fiber would be mushy and more easily digested. Guess not. So I am modifying my New Year's Resolution already. Instead of drinking this faithfully every day, I will try drinking every other day and see if I can tolerate that. If not, I might try drinking some twice a week. There surely must be some way to ingest something that promises so much in the lines of stoking your immune system, preventing cancer, building up your intestines (not to mention the eye thing).

I was given permission to get an appointment with the new nutritionist at Wilmot Cancer Center, and they were supposed to call me once she got established. She arrived in November. I have an appointment in two weeks, following a PET scan next week. I will do my best to get booked. Perhaps she has a solution to the fiber intolerance that will help. Meanwhile, flush, grease, flush, grease, -yuck.

Land of Perpetual Snow and Ice

The Farmer's Almanac 2009 edition calls for colder than average temperatures for most of the country. The almanac also predicts above-normal snowfall for the Great Lakes and Midwest, especially during January and February. The Northeast and Mid-Atlantic regions will get an unusually wet or snowy February.

I think they may have it right. This is the first winter in many years where it has snowed the majority of days, from light flurries to big wet flakes to downright blizzards and whiteouts. It started early in November and has not truly let up straight through December and on into January.

I am beginning to think that white air is the norm! Not that I mind. An old-fashioned winter such as I remember from my childhood with plowed snowbanks soaring high over my head and the irresistible invitation to don snowpants and come outside and play.

So far, I have engaged in a snowball fight of minor proportions, relishing the splat in the face by a sloppy snowball hurled by a student desk worker on my way in to work the other day; assisted in the formation of several snowpeople - not so much from the rolling or lifting, but the sculpting afterwards of crossed arms and buttoned gowns; created three snow angels (one of which was recognizable as such - apparently I have lumps and bumps that were missing in my skinny childhood); and shoveled more than my share of behind-the-car impediments (I have gone through two car brush scrapers so far).

I plan to do some cross country skiing soon with a friend, and might be convinced - if the right opportunity arose - to do some ice skating. Not so sure about sledding any more. Never was too fond of swooshing down a hill on some board or flying saucer, spinning totally out of control until some benevolent tree managed to halt the downward motion.

Wouldn't you think all this unsought exercise would help? But no. I have not lost an ounce. Must have something to do with the appetite one works up in the frozen tundra!

Robotics Begins

Robotics 2009 Kickoff Event is Saturday at Rochester Institute of Technology. This year, Drew knows a little more about what to expect. Since he's not such a 'newbie', he decided to visit a friend the night before the big event. He stayed late, and in the morning, I have to pry him from the sheets despite the fact that he has been looking forward to this day for months - ever since soccer ended really.

I, on the other hand, rarely ever feel like I know what is going on with Robotics. I am as clueless as they come. They have most of their parent informational and organizational meetings on nights when I work, so I don't get the picture. The faculty advisor does send me the meeting updates, but I always feel like I am in the dark.

This morning is no exception. "Do you need to eat breakfast before we go?" A non-commital grunt from beneath the hood of his sweatshirt. We are definitely running late and Drew doesn't even have shoes on yet. He grabs a peanut butter bar and heads for the car. "What about lunch - do you need to pack one or do you need money to buy one?" Another unintelligible grunt. "What did you say?"

He is losing his patience with me. Anxious about being late, he tells me he doesn't know, not to worry about it, and to grab the paperwork and get going. Paperwork? What paperwork? The only paperwork I had seen was what I had filled out in the only meeting I had been able to attend. I try to reassure him that the faculty advisor is sure to have extra papers for parents like me who don't have it all together.

We head off in stony silence. Not the way I pictured the big day unfolding. The instructions told us to follow the signs and park in the visitor parking. But if they had posted signs, we didn't see them. We were able to find Building 9, but I accidentally drove on the sidewalk (plowed like the road, but no curb showing and no surface blacktop showing to indicate where the sidewalk began).

Now the trick was to find free parking. Drew was getting antsy. We were already ten minutes late and sans paperwork. He wanted me to just park anywhere. I finally did, figuring that if I got a ticket I would plead ignorance. He bounded from the car, impatiently walking on ahead. The sidewalks were icy and filled with ridges of snow, making it difficult for me to walk fast.

Drew never said anything, but I could tell he wished I would hurry up. We finally got in the building, breezed down the long hallway (Drew walking, me running), turned left, more hall, stairs, groups of people milling about, and at last, our little group. Drew held a mumbled conversation with one of the mentors while I sat on a couch to catch my breath.

From the corner of my eye, I could see him sneaking a doughnut or two from the table near registration and wolfing them down. Finally he came over and summarily dismissed me. Huh? Don't I get to stay and see what all the hubbub is about? He wrinkled his nose. "Mom, you don't want to stay." He spoke as though saying it out loud would convince me of the folly of the idea. "Some guy will talk for three boring hours and thank everyone he can possibly think of. It will have no interest to you at all." He turned to go, leaving me standing there blinking.

That was that.

Later when I drove to the school to pick him up, he was bubbling over with details about this year's robot and how it needs to be able to travel on ice, no less, and how they have more mentors and are better organized and on and on. I nodded as I drove home, happy the day had turned out better than it had started. The proof will be in two months when they compete. Perhaps I will get to see the rally this year. Hopefully I won't embarrass Drew too much.

Field of Diversity

When do ducks and geese finally leave the frigid northeast and get to warmer climes? I thought by now they would all be long gone. Yet as I drive by that puzzling field on Buffalo Road, I see a flock of geese huddled in the lower eastern corner, the one usually filled with slush and water. I make a mental note to look into migratory habits of geese.

Surprise, smack dab in the center of the same field, I see the large flock of turkeys that appears from time to time. Sharing the same space, not interacting mind you, just taking care of their own business, gobbling away at invisible bugs and grubs, gingerly picking their way over mounds of snow and clumps of corn stalks.

And at the western side of the field, I find a small flock of guinea hens, big and black and stationary, their backs to the wind. Not bothering the turkeys or the geese, hunkering down, staying out of the weather as much as possible.

A microcosm of America. Little groups huddled about taking care of their business, trying to stay out of each other's way while holding body and soul together. Peaceful co-existence. Hum.

Happy New Year!

With Kiel still at Mark's place and Drew sleeping in, I had the place to myself. I turned on the TV to catch the Rose Parade, and since it wasn't on yet, started my typical New Year's Day sorting and upgrading of paperwork, bills, address books, junk. It has become a ritual for me to dedicate the whole day to pare down the excesses as much as I can.

I got through in record time since I wasn't cooking or constantly being interrupted by someone needing something or wanting me to run an errand. I took down a few lingering Christmas decorations, vacuumed the rug, and felt pretty good about being organized. It won't last, probably not even a day. But for one brief moment, I know where everything is. Ta-dah!

My New Year's Resolution this year is to start as many days as I can with one ounce of pasteurized carrot juice. Its touted as being useful in improving your immune system, helping combat cancer, and a dozen other good things. I had stopped at Lori's Natural Food Store and purchased a bottle.

I got it out, shook it thoroughly, popped the cap off, and poured a shot glass full. I held it up to the light where it seemed to fairly bristle with goodness and light. I smelled its delicate fragrance, and took a small sip. Smooth and light. Not too much body. Surely not enough fiber in this cooked version to do much harm to an old colorectal cancer survivor. Who knows, maybe it will be the magic solution to recovery.

Here's to better health - may I find the strength to keep this small resolution. Happy New Year.