Till Tuesday

            Yellow sun, endless blue skies with occasional puffy clouds, and 96 degrees: it was a typical—though rather hot for May--Oklahoma sort of day.  My OWFI (Oklahoma Writers’ Federation, Inc) roommates and I were traveling back to Bartlesville from a whirlwind of a weekend in Oklahoma City.

            Put three or four writers in a van after a writers’ conference and there are no lack of words.  We talked.  And we talked.  And we talked.  And we talked.  The miles flew by.  Almost too soon, it seemed, the van pulled into my driveway to let me off.  I bid good-bye to my new friends and wondered how hot my house would be.

            The cool air inside my well-shaded home was a pleasant surprise.  After all, I had not even turned on the air conditioning.  I plodded around in this suddenly sad and too-quiet space, unpacking my suitcase straight into the laundry basket and putting away everything else in record time before my Sunday afternoon nap.

            I texted my daughter—“I’m home.”  Her reply was an invitation to dinner.  Sadness banished, I stepped out into the Oklahoma heat, anticipating a glorious greeting from both grandchildren and conversation with Dana and Shawn worked in between verses of “The Wheels of the Bus” and the “ooh-ooh-ooh-hah-hah-hah” of monkey games.  Writing work would have to wait till Monday, and the air conditioning till Tuesday.

Halfway Home

I catch my first glimpse of Sound through fog and rain as the ferry speeds its way to the island.  A true Northwest greeting, this rain, followed by days of sun, then rain again.

Listening to the surf, seeing the snowy peaks east and west, breathing in the scent of fir trees and salty air, I am home in this joy wash of creation's majesty.

Sharing precious moments with friends and entering back into my beloved faith community seamlessly as if I had never left, I am content.  Music, worship, and fellowship fill the lonely spaces of my homesick soul.

Yet even as my heart belongs to Whidbey Island, it belongs as well to my home in Bartlesville.  I long for hugs from Benjamin and Joelle, anticipate conversation with Dana and Shawn, and think about the dear folk at Good Shepherd.

I'm in an in-between space, halfway home on an island and halfway home on Sooner Road.  If I could be both places at once, I would.

When the past, the present, and the future are all rolled up in one, then I will finally be all the way home--in heaven.

No Foolin'

            I just finished reading Three Corners Has My Cat:  Caregiving in Alzheimer’s Time.  No foolin’.

            Perhaps it seems a strange thing to do, read a book that I wrote over a period of five years and edited many times.  But I wanted to find out what it was like to read the whole thing just like I read any other book.  And it is the best way I know to reminisce about my mom.

            You see, I miss her.  My life took off in a whole new direction soon after she died, and sometimes I can hardly believe how quickly everything has changed.  So it seemed right to take some time to read my book, to pause a bit and remember my caregiving life on the island that I will soon be visiting. 

            The writer in me notices the occasional typographical errors and awkward sentences.  She sees how the manuscript would benefit from professional advice and editing.  But she also notes the poetry of well-turned phrases and feels the emotions evoked by description and dialogue. The daughter in me misses her mother and is so profoundly grateful to have this written recollection.  The caregiver in me still feels the guilt, relief, and grief that those pages record. 

            So I’m feeling sad and nostalgic for the past as well as thankful to have had those years with my mother and my brother and my friends on Whidbey Island.  What a gift that time was!  I am also reminded to embrace each day of my present life with joy and gratitude.  God has blessed me in so many ways here in Bartlesville. 

            Still, I’m looking forward to two weeks of water and mountain views, of worship and music, of fellowship and fun on the island that still feels like home.  And, Mom, I’ll be thinking of you every single day.  No foolin’.

            

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.