Duck Pond Ramblings

            Sunshine and in the upper 70s:  yesterday was a treat.  My neighbor, Alice, and I went for a first walk at the duck pond.

            Bartlesville has a park trail system called The Pathfinder, which winds its way between parks through the countryside within the city limits.  Since moving here in October, I’ve been looking forward to trying out the paved trails.  Those first few weeks, caught up in the business of unpacking and doing errands about town, I missed my window of opportunity for comfortable walking weather.  What’s more, I drive past the duck pond when I have coffee at Jude’s and shop at Food Pyramid and have often thought about stopping to walk, but weather or groceries in the back seat have always stopped me.

            We parked in the gravel parking lot on the east side of the pond and started the loop.  It was a day for geese, and from what we observed, the mating season has begun.  The few in the water were busy with this springtime activity, but most of the geese were hanging out in the park on the quest to be fed by willing visitors armed with bags of stale bread pieces.  They honked and strutted about (the geese, not the people).  A gaggle marched over to a minivan that pulled up in the west-side parking.  Sure enough, on our next pass around the pond, we saw that gaggle gathered around a picnic bench where the humans were tossing chunks of whole-wheat bread.  One disheveled, old goose standing off by itself reminded me of a rooster:  its beak was red and lumpy like a rooster craw.  Some of the geese were white, some brown.  All were incredibly noisy.

            We walked and talked, enjoying the raucous geese, quiet ducks, and hot sun.  We peeked in a dusty window of an abandoned one-room cabin.  We noticed that many of the trees were marked by small signs identifying them.  We commented on how pretty the area will be once spring has turned the area from brown to green.  Finally, after a good hour of walking, I declared a last loop and we headed over to Alice’s car.

            So it is no surprise that my energy flagged last night and that I woke this morning with pain as my companion.  Even though the temperature today is supposed to hit 81, I must forgo the duck pond today.  I need a recovery day and am beyond grateful that I am gainfully unemployed (my synonym for retirement) so that I can slow my leisurely lifestyle down another notch to accommodate this pesky fibromyalgia.  Otherwise, my goose would be cooked.

No Monkeys

            Today is the second consecutive snow day for Bartlesville Public Schools, a real treat for most kids but not so for 4 1/2-year-old Benjamin.  He thrives on routine, and going to pre-school is an important part of his routine.  Thus, it was an easy decision this morning to invite him over for a play date.

            Shawn, home because he is a teacher himself, delivered my grandson to my door at ten with the one item I had requested:  a ball.  Before I could even think to get Benjamin’s coat off, he was on his way to the toy room.  I was ready, having set up his toys minus the monkey because I want to expand his horizons beyond our monkey game.  I felt somewhat like an anthropologist, ready to study the communication habits of my grandson.  My goal was twofold:  follow his lead and encourage communication.

            Benjamin loves to walk from room to room in my house, especially carrying a toy.  I followed him around and participated in his play, trying to enter into his world.  We grooved to the music of his mailbox, celebrated playing with the See and Say on the guest bed, took turns with the toy phone, and played with the ball a little bit.  Each of these activities took place in, perhaps, thirty-second increments.

            I knew he would find his way into my kitchen.  There is something about sitting on the floor and looking up at the exhaust fan above the stove that delights him.  There he will sit, clap his hands, and make his “ah ah ah” sound to signal me for a snack.  I peeled and cut up a small apple into bite-sized pieces.  Throughout his hour here, he ate most of the apple.  Each time he went into the kitchen to the counter where the apple was, he had to ask for it.  Sometimes he did the signs on his own; sometimes I prompted him.  It was interesting to see his variations on “please eat.”  Sometimes the “eat” came first, other times the “please.”  Sometimes he signed just one of the words himself; sometimes he took my hand to his mouth for “eat” and rubbed my tummy for “please.”  Always I said the words. 

            Just for fun, I tried offering the apple pieces in different ways.  At first I handed him a piece.  Then I had him take the single piece out of a little plastic container.  Finally, I put five or six pieces in the container and was pleased to see that he would take out just one or two instead of grabbing all of them at once.

            Near the end of our hour together, I could see that he was starting to get tired.  At one point, he walked into the living room, sat down on the floor, put his hand in his mouth, and started to cry.  I sat down in front of him and asked, “Benjamin, what’s wrong?”  He stopped fussing and made his sign for “sing,” so I did. 

            By this time, he had asked to leave several times by going to the front door and trying the door handle, which reminds me of another door story:  I told Benjamin I was going to use the bathroom and let him follow me in.  There he pulled back the shower curtain to see the bathtub, looked at the sink, and checked out the bathmat.  When I was done, he helped me close the toilet seat lid, watched me flush the toilet, and watched me wash my hands.  What I noticed is that he was familiar with and interested in the sequence.

            I count this morning as a grand success.  Benjamin had fun, and I learned a little more about entering his world and communicating with him.  He is a good teacher.  And, to be honest, I did not miss the monkey.

            

The Ultimate Prize

In my granddaughter’s eleven-month-old mind, her brother’s bedroom is the ultimate prize.  He has cool toys and a whole lower shelf of board books she can pull down.  Yesterday, as I watched Joelle determinedly army crawl down the hall to get to Benjamin’s room, the tune to “Shall We Gather By The River” put itself into new words. 

Shall we crawl on down the hallway?

The beautiful, the beautiful hallway?

Shall we crawl on down the hallway

That leads to Benjamin’s room?

What would happen if I put my whole self into pursuing Christ?  Like Joelle, I would find heaven.

Book Note

           As I sat down at today’s church luncheon, I heard a voice to my right say, “So you’re the one who kept my wife up till midnight.”

            That seemed like a strange comment, so I figured I was hearing the tail end of a conversation.   Then Margaret spoke up:  “I read your whole book yesterday.  It was so good!”

            “Really?” I said.

            “Oh, yes . . .” and she went on and on about it. 

            Wow.  She is the second person I know of that has read the whole thing since I self-published it through CreateSpace.com and the Kindle store three days ago. 

            Two readers, three days, about a dozen purchases:  it doesn’t take much to get me excited.  Maybe my audience will grow with time, maybe it won’t.  But already my prayers that Three Corners Has My Cat:  Caregiving in Alzheimer’s Time would bless those who read it have been answered.

My Place

            Our Sunday School lesson for the second Sunday of Advent was that humility is the true spirit of Christmas.  Teaching point two was this:  “Humility is expressed in knowing and accepting your place in God’s plan.”

            It is a little awkward to write about humility and oneself without seeming to be proud.  But I think you will agree with me that there is nothing puffed-up about my place in God’s plan:  playing Mr. Monkey and singing “The Wheels on the Bus” with my grandson, Benjamin.

            Before I divulge details of the monkey game which is now part of my daily life, let me give you a little background.  Benjamin isn’t your typical four-year-old.  He has Down Syndrome.  He has yet to utter his first word, but he is adept at signing “please” and his own version of “sing.”  He also communicates through his body language and actions.

            Benjamin and I are always very happy to see each other.  We smile, laugh, clap our hands, and give each other a big hug.  After one or more rounds of this mutual adoration society greeting, he brings me one of his stuffed monkeys.  “Why, it’s Mr. Monkey!” I exclaim.  Then, using my best Mr. Monkey voice, I wave a monkey arm and say, “Hi, Benjamin!” followed by three sets of “Hoo-Hoo-Hoo!  Ha-Ha-Ha!  Mu-ah!”  as Mr. Monkey zooms in to kiss Benjamin (left ear, right ear, face) with each repetition. 

            During the course of these daily visits, I also manage to squeeze in conversation time with my daughter and her husband as well as play time with nine-month-old Joelle.  Inevitably, the Mr. Monkey routine is repeated several times over as is Benjamin’s request for “The Wheels on the Bus.”  He signs “sing” (spinning his hands like the wheels on the bus) and “please” (rubbing his hand on his chest).  I have shortened this never-ending song to a mere seven verses, and it is always followed up by “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”  Then we laugh and hug each other again.

            I am sure that as time goes on, Benjamin and I will come up with additional games to play.  In the meantime, though, I am quite certain that God’s plan for me is to sing “The Wheels on the Bus” and play Mr. Monkey with all the love and gusto I can.  

Today

            Today I cruised around town for yard sales and came away with a plant stand and two flower pots for my front porch, two shirts, and a darling hand-painted telephone table.

            Today I saw Benjamin after he got home from his eye surgery and gave him some cuddles and sang him some songs.

            Today I put my Multnomah Falls poster in a frame.

            Today I watched Joelle for part of the afternoon so that both Dana and Shawn could nap while Benjamin did.

            Today I prayed for Hilary Welch Blount, her family, and her friends.  Hilary, a vivacious and talented woman of about 30, whom I never had the opportunity to meet, died of complications from an unexpected and severe bout of ulcerative colitis. 

            Today I have found myself humming and singing songs of worship and praise.  In life and in death, in blessings big and small, in the details of the everyday, in grief and in joy, God is worthy of our praise.  Why He gave me this quiet sense of worship today, I do not know.  But I am grateful for it.

            Last night’s email from my brother John was a reality check:  he has found someone to rent the cabin long-term.  Wow.  I am very glad for him and pretty sad for me.

            Perhaps “nostalgic” is the better term.  To realize that I will not be staying there in the cabin when I visit (at first he had thought about doing vacation rentals) hits me hard.  It was most definitely home, a place of refuge in what Mom called “the middle of beauty.”  And now it is not.  Home, that is. 

            I have no regrets about moving, though I miss the magnificent mountains, water, and woods and the many friends who graced my life with their unique personalities and amazing giftedness. 

It is a marvel how much God healed me emotionally and spiritually during those five years on the island.  I come back to the Midwest a different person than when I left:  confident, secure, grounded in faith.  I find myself happily plunging into new opportunities for service, worship, writing, and music.  It is as if God has thrown wide the doors to my soul so I can embrace the present with joy even while I miss the past.