Operation Do-Gooder

The news of Libby's death two weeks ago left me filled with restless energy. I wasn't needed in Minnesota, I'd checked, and so I found myself with no outlet for my need to DO SOMETHING!

I'd been trying to find some resources for KC, my homeless friend. The same day Libby died, one of the first came in - that he should contact the people at reStart. The next day, I was worse than useless at work, so I took my notepaper and headed on down to the library to see if I could catch him.

He was in his usual spot in the reading room, and so I sat down and gave him the information. He told me he'd follow up, and I started to leave, then stopped. The reStart office was a mile away, uphill, and he had his bags to carry. I asked him if he would like a ride up there, he gratefully accepted.

Into the car we hopped, his bags safely stowed in the trunk. Once we got there, there was a wait to talk to one of the counselors. (Being homeless involves a lot of sign-in-and-please-waits.) I sat down with him, shortly someone came to ask what we needed. He explained his plight; she went away and came back with a list of places to call, a generic list printed off some site on the internet.

I'd been told they had a more in-depth program, some case workers available to help him navigate the system. I asked about it, and she went away again. When she came back, she said, if we could wait longer, someone would work with us to prepare some sort of at-risk form. Of course, we could wait.

As we sat waiting at the table, I took out my phone and started calling the places on the list. Place after place told me, "No, we have nothing available at the price listed on the sheet." I kept doggedly calling. Finally a different answer. "Yes, we might have something, let me transfer you." The call went through to voice mail.

That's when it hit me. How was KC ever going to find a home if he couldn't leave a call-back number? If he couldn't make the calls I was making?

We finished the intake form, and he was given another number to call. He'd be able to get into their program on a space-available basis.

To call.

I dropped him back at the library and went back to work. Not to actually accomplish anything, mind you. I got on the computer and started researching pre-paid cell plans. Much to my surprise, because I never think of them as the low-cost provider, at&t had the best deal going.

I stopped at the phone store on my way home, picked him up their cheapest phone, and added three months of service. The next day, I dropped the phone off with him. I briefly showed him how to use it, and left, feeling like perhaps I made a small difference in his life.

By the middle of the next week, he still hadn't used it to make any calls. Why not??? (I know he hadn't used it because I snooped - I'd kept the billing info so I could add more time to the phone, and I went out checked the link to see how he was doing.)

I tracked him down again, to give him a direct lesson in Modern Phones 101. Unfortunately, the phone was dead - he hadn't plugged it in since I'd given it to him. I took the phone back to my office, charged it up and downloaded all the updates. Since I was going out of town for the funeral, I left it with one of my colleagues, Greg, who managed to track him down on Christmas Eve.

Greg took him for coffee, they swapped stories. Greg showed him again how to make a call - apparently he smiled like a kid when that first call, to Greg's cell, went through. KC was set. Or not.
Back from the funeral last week, I checked; he still wasn't using it to make calls. I tracked him down once again - he was carrying the phone, charged now, but powered down, still in its original box.

**sigh** We're not giving up on him, Greg and I. Being able to use a phone may not be the only thing he needs to get him off the street, but it's a necessary part of the process. We have plans to track him down as many times as needed (he makes that easy by hanging out in the same spot in the library on most days); to spend time with him in small doses until he's comfortable with the technology.

Operation Do-Gooder continues....

Goodbye, Libby (continued)

Libby Lizard Elizabeth Elephant
1967 - 2018

Last Friday night was the longest night of the year. Saturday, the year turned; the days will be no shorter this season.  That same day, we gathered as family and friends to celebrate Libby's life. It seemed a fitting day to bid her adieu.

The service was beautiful. I ended up back a few rows from most of the family, but next to my kids, their presence a solid reminder of all that is good in my life. I sat there and I cried and I cried and I cried. The testimonies were beautiful. The service ended. I wasn't ready to go, so I sat there while the rest of the people left the room.

I waited for quiet, and I sang my own goodbye song to her (it wasn't part of the program; I was good with that), asking the angels to welcome and guide her along her way. I sat down again, and cried and cried and cried some more. The tears wouldn't stop - too many levels of grief, too hard to say this last farewell. After some time, two of my cousins came and sat with me. I can't remember what they said, but they didn't try to stop the tears, rather just rode with the storm until it stilled.

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of hugs and sad faces and smiles as we shared stories of our lives. So many people who loved her were there, and so many more weren't able to be there, but sent their love and care to send her along her way. We are loved.

Sunday, we'd long ago planned a Christmas gathering at another sister's house. Exhausted from the day before, with sore eyes and hearts, we gathered to celebrate anyways. We traded gifts (Libby loved the dice game we use to share the goodies), we got to watch the baby enjoy the best gift under the tree (the ribbon from one of the packages, naturally). We ate too much good food (of course!), some of us watched the football game (it seemed fitting to have it on in the background), we caught up on the non-Libby parts of each other's lives.

I needed the gathering. Needed the laughter and chaos and joy of Christmas present; needed the reminder that the darkness will not stay. My brain questions it at times, but my heart knows the world and the seasons and life all turn in harmony with the stately movement of the stars.

Love Is.

Merry Christmas, anyways!

Goodbye, Libby

Elizabeth Jean Asher
Feb 3, 1967 - Dec 10, 2018

You’d think, as long as she was sick, I’d have been ready for the news of Libby’s death.  But, the heart has its way, and it always hopes the time is not yet, that there will be just one more day.

Libby ran out of one-more-days last Monday, and I wasn’t prepared.  It’s been a week, and I’m just now starting to accept the reality that I will never talk to her again. She won’t answer those last few texts I sent; there will be no gift exchange this Christmas.

She died peacefully, more-or-less free from pain; the drugs were still working.  **major sigh of relief**  I hear tell she waited for her husband, Scott, to leave the house on to pick up her daughter from school before she left us.  If she had a choice in the matter, I know she did this on purpose. She wanted to be home, but didn’t want her girls there at the moment she died. I like knowing she got her way.

I suppose it’s telling about her place in the family that when I went to find a picture of her, all I had were group shots, and I had to crop the photo to give her center stage. She came along seventh in our line of eight children. She was the youngest of us five girls. Just sixteen months older than Ted, she never knew a world where she was the focus of attention. If that bothered her, I never knew; it certainly may have contributed to her feisty and fierce side. (If she wanted your attention, she was not an easy person to ignore.) In my memories, her aura matched her blonde hair - she was sunny, one of the bright spots in our family.

I left home for college when she was still in middle school. I left town on the heels of my graduation, when she was still in high school. Some years passed, I realized she’d finished growing up. I liked the woman she’d become, and we started to talk more often. Sporadically, she’d take time out of her life to make the trek from Minnesota to Kansas City, to visit one-on-one. I always enjoyed these visits, the only times we had time to have in-depth conversations about life and God and love and children and, and, and… 

And it’s so hard to fathom we will never talk again. I knew when I left for home in November this might come to pass, but I'd held on to the hope I’d be able to get up there to see her one more time.

Goodbye, Libby.

I will miss your smile and your wicked sense of humor. I will miss your introspective emails – thank you for letting us get a sense of what living and dying with cancer look like from the inside out.

Your last mantra was:  Life: No one gets out of it alive. You died having won your battle with the fear and despair that can come along with cancer. You didn't view your death as punishment, for it comes to all. Rather, death is a doorway, and now you know what lies beyond the portal.

We talked before you died - I hope you were right about what lies beyond what we know. I hope you are seeing with new eyes, and have reunited with those you love who have been waiting on the far side of the door. 

You and Maria were once inseparable. I hope the best part of her is there – the part that wasn’t buried under alcohol – and that you have patched up your differences and the two of you once again have each other’s backs. (Don’t get into too much trouble now, you hear???)

I love you.

I will miss you.

Sleep in Peace, my dear sister.

Keeping Vigil

Libby's younger daughter's birthday is coming up next week.  When I was up there in late October, Libby and I made a deal - that she would stick around for Onnika's birthday if at all possible.

Just a little over a month away at the time, it didn't seem like a stretch. But news from Minnesota tells me her cancer is growing quickly; Libby is already well out the door on her way home to see her God face to face.

The good news part is that the drugs are still working; she is in very little pain, even as her food and liquid intake drop to near zero. Pain relievers have come a long way since the days when I had to give Mom shots to try to control her pain; near the end, we had a hard time finding a less-painful spot to inject the drugs. No shots for Libby, thank Goodness. She now has difficulty swallowing pills, but they have been able to switch to a sub-lingual version of her drugs.  The liquids taste nasty, but work quickly and effectively, and don't cause her pain even as they work to ease it.

Here in Missouri, my heart has been keeping vigil. It feels like an overlay scene from the movies. I am here, grounded in the motions of my everyday life - work, exercise, getting ready for the holidays. But when I stop and look with my heart, I see a picture of Libby superimposed on whatever scene is in front of me. She is leaning back in her recliner, her body still. She is barely breathing; she is here, but not here. Her soul is almost done doing some last tidying up in its old home; she is ready to meet her Jesus.

It seems fitting for Advent. In Christian churches this season, songs are sung of waiting and watching for Emmanuel to come. I watch out the window as the days grow short - the day the year will turn is right around the corner.

Darkness has come, but it will not stay. Libby's body will die, but she firmly believes Jesus is waiting for her on the other side, along with Mom, Dad, Maria and all the others she loves who have gone before her to prepare the way.

We talked of this moment-to-come back in October, shortly before I left for home. She is not afraid, her cancer did not win. It will take her body, but it did not win the more important struggle for her soul. She did not give in to Satan's message of fear and despair. She has seen the darkness, and has chosen the light. She has lived all of the days, now all of hours, she has. After all, it's not as if her death is punishment for some real or imaginary misdeed. All of us who are alive will follow her one day.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Bring your light which banishes all darkness.
Come, to walk beside her. 
Come, and guide your daughter home.

Wishful Thinking

My brain works in odd ways at times.

This past week, I was trying to convince myself to take advantage of the online sales. I'd get online, I'd browse, but I stopped before I hit the purchase button.

Why? Usually when I stop myself it's because I want to think over an impulse buy, but these were all more-or-less planned purchases; they were Christmas gifts.

As I was dropping off to sleep, pondering the question, I realized the answer - because somehow, my subconscious had decided that if I make commitments, even to UPS and FedEx, Libby will die before Christmas.

See if you can follow me here...

If I order stuff, it'll have to be delivered.
If Libby dies, I won't be here to accept the packages, because I'll be in Minnesota.
If I don't order stuff, I obviously don't have to worry about package delivery.
Which means I won't be in Minnesota when the packages (don't) arrive.

See?  Obviously, not ordering packages is the key to keeping her around.
And I want her to stay around.

It's hard for me, giving up my illusions of control. But if ever there was a situation out of human control, this is it.

Libby still has some good hours in her days. Not as many as she did before, she spends a lot of time floating in the not-quite-here space created by her pain meds. (They are still working effectively, praise all that is Good.) She does pop out of the ether every now and again during the day to check in with terra firma, her mind and sense of humor are intact.

All my wishing, all my wanting, won't change a thing. She will live whatever days she has; we don't know the exact number, but we do know she doesn't have many days left. As aggressively as her cancer spreads, it will hit a vital something soon, and she will leave us to find out what lies around the bend. (She's most curious about it...)

My delusions of control bring no good to the situation - they affect her health not at all. However, if I don't become aware of them and tell them to take a hike, they WILL do an effective job of making sure I am not ready for Christmas when it gets here.

I got online yesterday and ordered the packages.
**sigh**

An Inspiration

I woke up sad today. I thoroughly enjoyed having some family in for Thanksgiving, but the two days of fun flew by. This morning, the weight of the concerns I'd ignored while they were here to distract me felt overwhelming. My problems felt heavy, unsolvable; my heart was weary and I wanted nothing more than to stay under the covers and pretend the world didn't exist.

As my thoughts spiraled down their gloomy path, a memory of my daughter surfaced.

She was halfway through chemo at that point. Her body was bloated from the steroids and poisons they were using to give her the best shot they could at keeping her cancer at bay. Her hair was gone. She ached, she was exhausted and jittery. Her mouth tasted of heavy metals.

And she decided her best chance to feel better was to exercise. She hauled her sorry rear out of bed, got dressed in her running clothes, and took off along her favorite route along the Mississippi river in St. Paul.

As she ran, she told herself, 'I am an inspiration.'
Soon, she was passed by a young woman pushing a stroller with two active toddlers in it.

'I am an inspiration.'
She was passed by an old guy jogging slowly along with a hitch in his step.

'I am an inspiration.'
She was passed by a homeless drunk man trying to escape his demons, weaving hither and yon across the trail, bottle in paper bag clutched firmly in one hand.

'I am an inspiration - to myself!'

And she was. She finished her 'run' even though the best pace she could muster was slower than the medium walking rhythm of her good days. The endorphins kicked in to lift her mood a bit, getting her blood circulating helped ease some of the heaviest of the aches. She'd pushed back against the pain and the blech and didn't let it stop her from living the day as best she could anyways.

Her tale has stuck with me, and helped me to reach past my own aches and pains more than once. Today, it got me out of the house and walking around the park - and the movement worked its magic to bring perspective to my problems and some ease to my concerns.

Kate, whether you believe it or not, you were an inspiration to more than just yourself that day.

Night on the Streets

"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?"

My morning walk to work takes me past a group of homeless men. Some, I don't know, so I greet them only with a smile and a nod. Some have troubled eyes and spirits - I don't talk to them; I am afraid of disturbing their demons. But some of the men regularly waiting there are just down on their luck, and to these, I say hello as I pass them in the street.

I first noticed KC earlier this fall. He stood out because he was reading a book as he waited for the library to open; the only one of these men I've ever seen actually reading. I've stopped time and again for a few minutes to talk about the story he is reading that day, to hear a bit of the story of his life.

He's on the street because of a dishonest roommate - the guy took $720, two months rent, and instead of paying the landlord, skipped town.  KC found out about it when they came to post the eviction notice.  He had just a few days grace period, time to move his things to a storage unit; not enough time to find a new place. And, with the rent money gone and no cash reserves, he didn't have the money to buy into another arrangement anyways.

He gets social security; is trying to save enough that he can get a new place, but rent is expensive these days, and he's having trouble finding an apartment he can afford. It's taking him some time to pull the money together - being homeless is expensive. (Food is really pricey when you have to buy all of it already cooked because you have no kitchen and no place to keep what you don't eat.)

This week, with Thanksgiving approaching, I invited him to join me for lunch on Friday. I can't fix his problems, but I hoped a good, hot meal would provide a balm for his cold and discouraged soul.

As we ate our hearty bbq sandwiches, he spoke just a little about some of the challenges he's faced these past few months. Hardest, he said, are the nights when the homeless shelter is full, and there is no room at the inn.

"Have you ever spent the night outside when it wasn't your choice and you had no place to go?", he asked.
"No", I replied, "What do you do when that happens?"

He continued his story:

There is a building near 12th and Oak that has a public outdoor area dug down into the ground about half a story. It has some places to sit; the kind where the tables and stools are bolted to the ground. I can feel almost safe there. When the wind is from the north and northwest, those are the coldest winds, the walls provide some shelter from their chill; I can almost pretend I am warm. 

There is light there, light enough to read. I sit down with my book in this oasis in the dark, and try to lose myself in a story. I watch the courthouse clock across the way.  10:30, 12:30. The first few hours aren't so bad, but I know I won't be able to sleep, so I continue to read.  3:15.  The night is dark and cold and long. The minutes feel like hours and the hours until morning stretch endlessly in front of me. I return to my book anyways.  The story is better than reality. After an eternity, 6:30 finally comes, the light begins to return. 

I give thanks for the ability to read; my books have guarded me from the terrors stalking the night. I gather my bags, and move on, grateful for the return of day.

As I listened, my eyes filled with tears. I don't know the rest of KC's story, why he has no one to turn to who will take him in. He didn't offer that part, so I didn't ask. I don't have the wherewithal to begin to fix his problems; I felt helpless, and a little shallow. And I thought buying him lunch might make a bit of difference?

But then, as we finished our fries, he thanked me profusely. He said the food was the smallest part of what I'd given him. More importantly, for the hour we sat and talked, he was a person again. No longer just another throwaway ragtag bum with his plastic bags, he was again a Someone. I'd listened to his story and found his story worth listening to.  It mattered.

Good Is.

No One Leaves Life Alive

Life: No one gets out of it alive.

This is one of the thoughts I know brings solace to Libby as she prepares (not plans) to leave this world.

She is largely at peace with the days she knows are coming, but she is not dying yet. She is busy living the days she has.

I had brought my camera to Minnesota; I wanted to take one more picture of her; to try to hold a bit of her here with me. But the camera never came out, because once I was there, I knew the lens wouldn't be able to capture the beauty I saw in her. It would have caught only the pallor of illness, the exhaustion lines around her eyes; it wouldn't have been able to capture the unearthly beauty of the essence I could see overlaying her physical frame. Some things just can't be photographed.

I swear, somehow, as illness thins her skin, her body can no longer contain her. As she lets go of her last illusions of control (we all have them...), her goodness, her peace with the knowledge she now knows how her story ends, and yes, her anger and frustration with the difficulties of these last days of her life glow softly through, her inner light too bright to contain within.

Goodbyes are hard.  This one was especially hard because I knew it just might be the last time I get to say it to her.  It wasn't, "I'll see you next month or next spring or next time we're in the same town," but rather, it was, "I want to say all the words I've ever wanted to say to let you know just how much you mean to me because it's possible the next time I see you it will be on the other side of life, but I just know I'm not going to be able to find them." 

Libby and I had danced around the discussion the last few days I was up there; it was too touchy to approach. The days I was there, I was able to focus on the things I could do to help. To work as part of a cleaning crew, to help her set the house in order. To take the girls shopping for this and that, to fix food she might like to eat, to pick up soft, flannel unicorn and llama sheet sets for the hospital bed which arrived the day before I left. But ready or not, Saturday morning came, and it was time for me to go home.

As I gathered up my things and packed up the car, I was heartened to hear her stirring upstairs - she'd had a full day on Friday, and she quickly runs low on energy these days, so I thought she might not be up. But there she was, and there I was, and neither one of us knew what to say. 

She said 'Goodbye. Now leave before I break down.' I, of course, didn't leave, but went over to sit at her feet, lay my head on her lap, and let the tears freely flow. We both did.

Slowly, haltingly, some words came out. I can't remember the actual words, and they don't matter because they all distilled down to the essence: I love you.  Be well, where ever your path leads. You are in my heart all of the days. I will miss you.

God be with you.  Always.

Comfort Kittens

I came on up to Minnesota last weekend to spend some time with Libby.

When I got here, Sunday, she was in considerable pain. She was doing her best to manage it with Tylenol and Advil since the stronger painkillers were coming right back up, but she was losing the battle.

She'd invited a hospice team to come in and talk with her about the services they offer, they came in on Monday. After some discussion, she and Scott decided to sign up.

These people don't fool around. By the time they'd left, they had a list of medications, and had given advice on which ones she should and shouldn't be taking in which combinations. A courier arrived with a pack of new ones to try before bedtime. By Tuesday, she was much improved. A few days later, her pain levels are down considerably; her nausea is under control. Her color is better, she's getting some restful sleep.

I'm singing the praises of her hospice team. They listen, they care, they are treating the whole person, not just the symptoms of her disease. Just what she needs right now.

One of the things the hospice people talked about in the initial discussion was that their goal was to help her prepare for what was coming, not plan for it. I appreciate the linguistic distinction, and it's stuck with me all week. She's not dying yet, but any plans she makes are on shaky ground. However, she can work to prepare for the days ahead; to lay the groundwork for how she wants to spend the days she has.

One of her daughters is still in high school, and struggling to cope with the changes rocking her world. A few months ago, they went out and picked up two kittens. The little gals are destined to be outdoor cats. They have a warm house, and many mice to learn to catch. As I watch them outside the window, they are practicing their pouncing skills on the leaves blowing about the yard.

Because they are so small, they are still spending nights inside, closed up in the bathroom. Turns out they are the perfect therapy animals. When her life gets overwhelming, Onnika goes into the bathroom, and the kittens provide some much-needed therapy. They climb on her, they purr. They chase the toys scattered about the room. She relaxes, she smiles. Her troubles fade to the background just a bit, life is better.

Goodness Is.

Done

Her email subject was simple:  Done.

The words in the body of the message were clear, inarguable, heartbreaking:

I had scans on Monday.  The cancer has spread to my lungs, liver and bones.  Other than the possibility of getting me into a trial, there won't be any further treatments.
Thank you for your love and support.  I could not have done this without you.
Libby

No arguments from me this time. Only tears, the day the message came in, and again every time I see them again in my mind's eye, which is often.

October has come in this year with a cold blast of rainy weather. In the last two weeks, we've gotten enough rainfall to make up for the rains we didn't get all summer. 

A huge climate report came out last week. If we don't take our heads out of the sand, and do it yesterday, the balance will tip, and coastal areas around the world will disappear. A hurricane blew out of nowhere last week, wreaking havoc on the Florida panhandle, and dumping a torrent of rain on the Carolinas, already ravaged by last month's hurricane.

Where is Good in all this? As I rail against God and the fates in my anger and grief at the finality of Libby's words, at the dark days ahead for the people of our planet, I keep hearing a small voice.  

Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one. All things living - ants and stars, people, planets and flowers - all things living will one day die. Today. Today is the only day each of us has.When you remember to look for Good in her hours, you will find it there.

I tried to heed the voice. I can't find Good anywhere in the force of the hurricanes, they're too vast, too far beyond what I can affect today, but if I look closer to home, to the places I can touch and the people I love, I can find it.

Instead of lamenting the tomorrows which may or may not come, I decided to enjoy the today I have.

I went outside this afternoon. The air was cool, the sun peeping out now and again. The rain has revived the plants in my yard. The grass is a healthy green, the flowers are blooming, quick counterpoints of color against the cloud cover. I pulled up the tomato plants, thanking them for their bounty of this past month. I mowed the grass. I stopped to admire a monarch butterfly, eagerly drinking from the garden's flowers.

Libby's decision to continue chemo last year bought her a year and more of mostly good days. Not enough days, but good days. (Are there ever enough days when facing death before one's children are grown?  I think not.)  I know she's lived those days looking for Good and Beauty - and finding them when she looked.

So many questions, so few answers. But one deep and abiding conviction:  When I remember to look, I will find Good - even, and especially, on the darkest of days. 

Walk a Mile

I have no trouble whatsoever walking for a while in Christine Ford Blasey's shoes - unfortunately, I know their fit all too well.

Brett Kavanaugh, on the other hand, is a bit harder for me.

I've more often been on the receiving end of drunken and insensitive behavior than the dishing out, but  I can try to get there. The news coverage on this has turned him into someone so one-dimensional, and I know no one-dimensional people. I'll admit - I am angry at him because he is a self-centered rich frat boy, and he got away with it.

But what if he didn't? From what I read, sometime between 18 and 53, he woke up and realized there was another road he could take. His wife, his daughters. As a judge, does he take pride in trying to be just, to be fair?

How does a young man feel inside when he wants to be liked, and the road to popularity lies through drunkenness and conquest? How does it feel when you wake up one day to realize drinking more and more alcohol only makes the empty hole inside bigger instead of filling it?

When I read the account of his testimony before the Senate, it rang with all the convincing truthfulness of Bill Clinton saying, 'I did not have sex with that woman.'

He may not remember that exact night but I'll bet my bottom dollar he remembers one (or more) like it. And he'd not want to admit it, even to himself, because it doesn't fit with his image of the man he wants to have been, the man he's tried to become.

Slowly, as I've pondered this image this week, I've come to feel a (small) measure of sympathy for him. He followed the rules as he was taught them. No penetration means no rape, and if I was drunk, I wasn't responsible for what I did. It was all in good fun.

Wasn't it?

How devastating to have a foggy ghost from your past resurrect itself and try to derail your life just when you've reached for the stars, been offered the job of jobs in your profession. No wonder he ranted and cried and went off the rails.

No, I don't think he's gotten off scot-free. He has to look in the mirror each morning. His long-buried sins have come out of the past to haunt him - and the entire country knows about them. He's not allowed to reflect and atone on the down-low. If he wanted the job, and he did, the only way through was to bluster and scream, deny and accuse in return.

He is now a Justice on the highest court in this land, but I can't believe his conscience is clear. I can't help but wonder if the dichotomy will eat at him, or if he will find a way to quiet the small, still voice.

This much I do know - I don't envy him, and am grateful I don't have to walk in his shoes every day.

Jiminy Cricket

When we walked in the house after getting back from our trip to Minnesota, I went first to the panel to turn off the alarm. Joe was following shortly behind me and headed straight for the basement. Puzzled, I opened my ears to hear the sound of water rushing, followed by silence as he unplugged the sump pump, which had blown a gasket, and was busily pumping away, sending the water in the pit mostly onto the cover, where it would promptly fall back into the hole. I'm not sure how long this had been going on, but it was long enough for the motor to have heated the water well into the point of steaming. (Has to happen when you're out of town, doesn't it...)

The next weekend, I put fixing the pump high on my list of priorities - rain is coming, and the pump definitely keeps my basement drier. As I walked over to the sump pump pit one of the basement crickets hopped ahead of me and jumped straight into the hole. While I'm all about catch and release when it comes to most bugs, I was not about to reach down into the hole to try to catch the little guy.  

I'd already picked up the replacement backflow valve, so I moved on, leaving him to his fate. I pulled the pump out of the hole - and found I'd picked up the wrong part. *sigh*  Back to the store with me, this time with the offending broken piece in had so I was SURE to get the right whizmagig.

Home again, it didn't take too long to swap out the valves. As I lifted the pump to put it back where it had started, I noticed my friend the cricket, clinging to the corrugated side of the pit. I guess it was too deep for him to make the leap out o his own. I still couldn't figure out a good way to safely get him out of there, so I moved on once again. After I finished tightening down the clamps holding the pipes in place, I needed to test my repair, so went and got the hose to fill the pit with enough water to trigger the pump.

The water started blasting in, and my forlorn bug friend found himself a pretty good perch on the top of the float. He rode there for a bit, but fell into the water once the pump activated itself.  I said a little prayer for his shortened life, and continued my test. Satisfied my repair would hold, I turned the water off and returned to the corner to start cleaning up my toys.

The cricket was floating on top of the water, feebly struggling, but alive. I couldn't just let him drown after he'd survived the great flood, so I positioned the hose beneath him, lifted him out of the water and set him down on the floor next to the pit. I ran upstairs to get a cup and a stiff piece of paper - he had barely moved before I got back to the basement.

I put the cup over him, the paper underneath, and carried him up and out into the sunshine. I set the trap onto the grass, lifted off the cup, and had the satisfaction of watching him perk up, shake himself off, and hop off to wherever he went.

His startled leap into the pit had unexpectedly ended well. (While a little worse for the wear, he actually landed ahead in the game, since I'm sure he prefers the great outdoors to the hard cold stone basement.)

These days, I often feel as if resistance is futile; as if my efforts to make a difference in this world amount to little more than nothing. I appreciated the reminder that, sometimes, a small effort on my part can make a big difference in the life of another. 

Even if it is only a cricket.

I Miss Her

I've had several conversations recently about my camper van trip, already seven years in the past. When we talk, they say, 'I loved to read your blog'. Past tense. When I tell them I'm still writing it, they say, 'I know, but it's not as fun anymore, so I don't look at it as often.'

I'd take umbrage at the statements if they weren't true.

It's not as fun any more.
I'm not as fun any more.

I miss her - the woman who was adventurous and free. She who threw all the cards in the air and took off to see if she could find where the road went. She who trusted the Universe she would land safely when her adventure was done.

Me? I'm back to my former responsible self. Chomping at the bit, yes, but leaning dutifully into the harness, pulling the weight of the wagon slowly forward. Busy looking at the ground and the road just ahead instead of watching the sky and the horizon.

The excitement is gone from my life - no wonder it's gone from my writing. My account of building a cabinet just doesn't have the verve of my tale of climbing the remains of an ancient Arcadia Park mountain on a rainy October afternoon. How can the story of my drought-stricken flower garden possibly measure up against the one about pulling up to a campground along the Appalachian Trail, and choosing a campsite based on the number of deer browsing in it?  (I seem to remember there were either five or six of them.)

I miss her. I really miss her.

Most days, these days, I think I've gone too far past the detour sign to ever find the old road again. I haven't given up the dream entirely, but it's fading; a trail petering out into the nothing of an unremarkable back field.

But then, I remind myself, boring has its up side. Boring means no drama. Boring means the bills are getting paid, the car runs, the roof doesn't leak. Boring means my remaining body parts are still functioning normally, that my aches and pains are just the normal ones of getting older.

My story may be boring, but at least it continues - and I find enough words most weeks to fill a page with my musings. And there are at least a few people left who find the words worth reading, which makes the time needed to gather them into some semblance of order and put them out into the ether worthwhile.

So, to those reading this page, thank you. Thank you for sticking with me, even though it's not so fun at the moment. Because it's still worthwhile. And, maybe, one day, I'll get back in touch with her.

I hope.
because I'm pretty sure she misses me, too.

Family Reunion

John Family Reunion, 2018

My Dad's family hosts a reunion every summer. He was one of nine, eight of them boys, all of them had children For some years now, the duty for hosting rotates among the families - this year's event was this past weekend. I try to get up there every other year or so - I enjoy spending a few hours with my cousins and catching up a bit on their lives. It's a long drive for just a few hours, but I always find it was worth it.

For me, the hardest part is trying to make my way around the room to talk to everyone in the short time allotted for the reunion. Everyone gathers just before noon, and by three, they're packing up the leftovers and getting ready to head on home. There were over fifty people there this time. Once you take out the time needed to overfill your stomach eating the potluck lunch (I don't know who brought the baked beans, but they were to die for!), there's just not enough time to get around the room.

It's funny. I haven't spent much time at all with my cousins as an adult, but it turns out that if you know someone as they're growing up, they don't really change that much as grown-ups. Nancy still has that quirk to her smile, the twinkle in Mark's eye hasn't changed a bit.

The reunions are smaller these days; our children are grown with children of their own, and most of them don't want to make time to go sit around with a bunch of old people they don't know just so their parents can point to them with pride, and say, 'that one's mine'.  (There WERE a few of the kids there, with their kids in turn. My son Joe and his wife Rita-Marie were among them - and yes, I pointed them out with pride many times during the course of the afternoon.)

These are the ties that bind us and hold us and support us. I have many friends I am closer to than I am to the crew pictured above. We have more in common, they know more of the details of my day-to-day life.

But they weren't there the day we had the epic king-of-the-mountain game in my Uncle Eugene's hayloft. They don't share the memory of our moms, sitting in Aunt Diane's kitchen, the air blue with cigarette smoke, conversation screeching to a halt when any of us kids walked into the room - they'd kindly see what we needed and usher us back out the door.

 I know the reunion tradition will eventually fall by the wayside, but I am grateful it hasn't happened yet. These are the people who knew me when, and love me anyways. You can't beat that.

Labor Day

Ever since I took off in the camper van in late August, my inner two year-old is pretty sure it's time to do it again when Labor Day rolls around. I reinforced this conviction the first couple of years back in town when I took off again for my month-long trips in the summer and early fall. She's downright moping this weekend at the realization nothing exciting is going to happen this fall. The only thing happening on the day after Labor Day will be me hoisting my rear into gear and getting it into work.

**sigh**

It was seven years ago last week when I threw all the cards in the air and took off for points unknown. I spent five months on the road before moving off on my long detour. Though the trip recedes in my rear-view mirror, I carry vivid images of beauty and peace with me yet today. I call them up when I lay down at night, they calm my breath, they calm my mind. Spending day after day journeying to beautiful places healed my soul in places I didn't know needed healing.

There was no particular destination in my travels that stands out - the cliche is true - it was all about the journey. I didn't get anywhere, but everywhere I got, I found what I was looking for.

This past week, I've found myself especially homesick for those days of being, not doing. I have my lists of things to get done, at home and at work. I have goals and measurements and check marks next to completed items. I do a pretty decent job of keeping up with the curve, and every once in a while, getting ahead a bit, but my heart isn't in it.

My gut understands why I go into the office. Retirement might last for a coupl-a-three decades. I don't really want to shortchange my future because I'm restless in my present.

But my inner child is afraid. The gaps between my fingers where time slips through grow ever wider. The days last about the same amount of time they always have, but the weeks and months are here and gone before I've had a chance to savor the gifts they brought. I am afraid I live on borrowed time, that the cancer will come back, and I'll have wasted the only days I have staring at a monitor so I can collect a paycheck. Right now, that paycheck represents a more secure future. What will it represent if I find another lump?

I'm looking for the balance. The point where I have enough in reserve where, God willin' and the crick don't rise, I can take care of myself through retirement, but not so much I waste any of my precious days working for nothing but an extra cushion. Where is the magic moment?

I'm not precisely sure, but I think I'm approaching it with some speed.

And, until it gets here, I will calm my fears with the images from my time apart from my real life. The time I kept my time for myself. The time I trusted in the Universe to help me to land on my feet after my big leap. I trusted, and my trust was rewarded. I need to trust again. When the time is right, I will know.

MIstakes Happen

the finished cabinet,
with Dad's picture on top

A year or two ago some of my friends retired and moved to Florida. As they were going through the inevitable big purge associated with downsizing, they offered me their stained glass making supplies. Learning how to make stained glass art has been on my list of 'things I'd like to do' for a long time, so I jumped at the offer.

I'm not sure what they'd used to store the glass, but it came to me in several plastic totes. I've been working around them for quite some time, holding my breath a little every time I move them around the workshop. Glass is easy to break, you know, and the totes are top-heavy and lopsided

Last weekend I finally got around to drawing up the plans for a storage cabinet, and spent the better part of Saturday making little boards out of big boards. This weekend, I went back outside to put them together.

For some reason, when it comes to making cabinets, I tend to subtract wrong when figuring out how much to cut back when allowing for the thickness of the wood - I make stupid simple math errors. Sure enough, when it came time to put the backs on the cabinet, I'd cut them, and the center dividers, an inch too short.

Bad words. I'm a bit of a perfectionist, and I really hate it when I make stupid mistakes. I was complaining to a friend of mine about it this morning, and he suggested I take a picture of Dad out to my workshop. He thought it would help me get in touch with my inner putterer.

I took his advice, and as I was working to fix my mistakes I was thinking of Dad.

Many, many, moons ago he was putting up the paneling in our bedroom. I was following him around and 'helping' as I was wont to do in those days. The bedroom had a low-ceiling, with slanted walls; and he managed to cut one of the pieces snugging up to the angle mirrored - so the back of the panel was the side showing. (I do the same thing. a lot. suppose it's hereditary?) He said, 'oh, shit!', about the only cussword that ever came out of his mouth, and stared at it for a while, hoping it would magically fix itself.

Magic didn't happen, so we traisped on out tot the garage to fix it the normal way. He didn't have enough paneling left to completely remake the piece, so he cut the biggest piece he could, and then a smaller triangle to fill the gap. It wasn't an invisible fix, but it wasn't glaringly obvious, either.  As he fixed the pieces into place, he looked over at me and said, 'It's not that mistakes will never happen; everyone makes mistakes. It's what you do to fix them that counts.'

I thought of him again today, as I worked to correct my errors. The end result isn't perfect, but it'll do. (especially for a storage cabinet that'll always live in a garage...)

Mistakes happen, and, it's OK; most mistakes can be fixed.
Good for me to relearn now and again.

Butterfly Garden, *sigh*

spring, 2018

My butterfly garden started out so beautifully this year.  The stand was filled to overflowing with spring's blues and purples, with just a touch of red for accent. The flowers grew as they always do, then withered in the heat of summer's sun, ready to give way to the season's oranges and yellows.

Except, this year, the summer flowers didn't come.

In years past, the summer garden was impatient with its boundaries, overflowing its designated patch to commandeer the bordering flagstone path and spreading seeds in a wide circle into the surrounding lawn. My then-neighbor to the south called it the neighborhood afro garden - abundant, beautiful, untamed.

summer, 2017

summer, 2018

This year, there are just a handful of sprouts, lonely sentinels standing bravely in the patch of brown.

The summer has been hot and dry, but so was last year's. Should I have watered sooner? Did I pull the not-quite dried stalks down too soon last fall, and thus interrupt the self-seeding cycle? Or were the seeds done in by the long, cool spring, with its freeze - grow cycle lingering long past its usual time? (I'm pretty sure that's what did in the bulbs I had in another bed - by the time I got impatient in late spring and dug one up to check to see why they hadn't come back, there was nothing left but a withered shell of the root.)

I'm not experienced enough with the land to know. The flowers that did come in don't have many blooms, though they do seem to be appreciating the lack of competition for sunlight - their stalks are strong, the leaves reaching gratefully in all directions to the light.

I finally went out a couple of weeks ago to get some annuals to fill in some of the larger blank spots. I know it's too late in the season for them to really grow, but the empty dirt just looked so sad and lonely. I still see a few butterflies about, drinking gratefully from the few flowers I have. The large bumblebees have (I hope) found greener pastures, the small bees have been feasting on the blooms on the mint. The hummingbirds still come by once in a while, to feed from the pink flowers on the bushes I planted to shield my eyes from my air conditioner.

I miss the abundance, I miss my backyard bug friends.

Next year, I will try again with new seed, and maybe, maybe the bees and butterflies will come back. I hope.

Fort Riley

Custer Home, Fort Riley, KS

My nephew, Connor, took a time-honored path to pay for college and signed up for the Army ROTC program. They kept their part of the deal, and are paying for his education. He is six months into keeping his part of the deal, and is on active duty.

When he was getting ready to be an active officer, they gave him a list of bases, and asked him to pick his top choices. When the duty roster came out, he'd predictably (given Army ways) been assigned to none of the above - they sent him to Fort Riley, just down the road a piece from me.

I know he wasn't initially thrilled with the assignment, but I thought it was nice that at least he'd be able to stop by once in a while for a weekend break. Little did I know about the life of a modern Army officer - they've kept him busy with training exercises almost all of the time since he got here last spring.

Finally, last weekend, his unit was given a break from the too-many-hour days they've been working to get ready for deployment later this year, and he was able to get a four-day pass. It was supposed to be Thursday through Sunday, but they didn't finish their work on time, so it got shifted to Saturday through Tuesday. (guess they figure their soldiers should get used to not making plans...)  Undaunted, his sister, Juliann, came on down from Minneapolis on Thursday as originally planned. I took Friday off from work to spend some time with her, and we left Kansas City mid-day to go to meet up with him on base.

It's just over two hours out there; the drive went quickly since she and I had much to catch up on. I'd never been on an Army base before - I was impressed. I've seen part of the base before - you can see a bunch of the equipment from the freeway - but didn't realize how far back into the surrounding area the grounds went.

It took very little time to get through at the Visitor Control Center - apparently Friday evenings are not prime time for visiting the base. From the size of the waiting room, I know we lucked out. You don't have four admitting stations and 40-50 chairs available if they're not usually going to be in use.

The base was established in 1852, and some of the original officer's quarters are still around. Most are actually in use, but they've set aside one of the oldest buildings as a museum.  We went over there on Saturday to see what we could see; were pleasantly surprised to find the building open for guided tours.

I was unprepared for the sense of age and history permeating the building.  We were the only ones there for our tour, and the guide was kind enough to let me behind the guide ropes for a closer look as long as I didn't touch anything. They've done a good job recreating the look and feel of the home as it was back when. I'm a sucker for old buildings in general; this one had me feeling as if someone would be back shortly to invite us to sit on the porch for a spell while dinner was being prepared in the detached kitchen.

Connor says he works with good people. He has a sense of belonging, of service, of duty. While my heart aches when I think of war, I'm glad we have good people like him willing and prepared to protect their country, their families. The Army's 1st Infantry Division takes good care of their historical home. I hope this means they will also take good care of the treasure entrusted to them in the form of my nephew.

Superpower

I used to be skeptical; I didn't believe in superpowers. The Hulk, Spiderman, Wonder Woman - I thought they were figments of imagination. Then, I heard rumors about each of us having a superpower of our own. I scoffed. No way. Not me.

But then, then I began to pay attention to inexplicable events in my everyday life.

I'd be standing in line at the grocery store, a line carefully chosen based on a complex point system which takes into account the number of items in the cart, the perceived distractibility and people-watching interest points of the cart driver(s), and the number of small children with the cart driver (among many other shifting factors), and is supposed to help me determine which is the shortest path to freedom.

My system worked for many years, but then its effectiveness dropped precipitously.

I'd be standing in line behind a guy with one loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter, and the lady with the cart full of assorted lunch meats and one of each kind of fruit would be checked out ahead of me because the bag around the bread would be found to have a tear in it, and he'd saunter slowly away to select another one, leaving the register tied up because the peanut butter had already run through.

I'd peruse the lines, and pick the one with two people, each with only a few items, only to have the first person decide they want to pay for their items in small change, which must be laboriously fished, coin by coin, from the depths of a cavernous handbag.

I'd pull up behind the small Honda in the toll lane, and they'd drop their quarter on the ground and because it's the only one in the car, have to take five minutes to crawl beneath the car to retrieve it.

"That's it!", I decided. "That's it!"

It's a little known derivative of the power to stretch time - I have the superpower to be able to stop checkout lines. I know, I know, you find this hard to believe, but it's true. I have story after story to prove it.

I generally keep knowledge of my power to myself. I mean, it would be so sad to see the faces of the people in front of me in line fall in disappointment just because I strolled into place behind them. Who knows what chaos would ensue if they all jumped to other lines? - I'm pretty sure that would be the moment I'd place my first item on the belt only to have the store's power cut out and ALL the lines would stop dead.

No, no, it's best to keep it to myself. But it gives me comfort to know I can change the world in my small way, every time I go to the store.

When I choose Lane 5, the people in Lanes 3 and 6 find themselves run through by the senior super-checkers, who can scan an entire cart in 45 seconds.

When I get behind the scowling meanie in Lane 2, I get to watch the steam rise from his ears while he watches the cashier carefully count each ear of corn in the bag to make sure the shopper got the count correct (Yes, ma'am, you were right - there are 38 ears of corn in your eight bags.  Lessee, that's today's special, and at seven for $4.50, that comes to....), while the mother with the cranky baby in Lane 4 scoots clean out the door.

I've heard it said, 'with great power, comes great responsibility', so I do my best to shepherd my power wisely. And you, my friend, would be wise to take heed and choose another queue should you see me standing, waiting patiently, in line somewhere.

Tomatoes

My tomato garden has become for me a triumph of hope over experience. (An expression I first heard used to aptly describe second marriages.  I rather liked it.)

Each spring, I put a few plants in the ground, hoping against hope for summer's delicious bounty to be mine. This year, I planted only cherry tomatoes, hoping they'd do a better of ripening than the big ones have, given my limited sunlight.

I hadn't reckoned with the absence of my much-missed sycamore tree next door.

My plants this year have taken off. They have overflowed their carefully sculpted boundary and have taken over a good foot of the yard. They covered themselves with blossoms early, a promise of bounty to come.

It's been dry this year, and I have been diligently watering my small crop, already able to taste the explosion of sweet goodness.

Enter reality.

Turns out a lack of moisture leads to thirsty squirrels. My furry friends may have abandoned their condo in my eaves, but they didn't move far; just to the neighbor's oak tree. They, too, have been eyeing my bounty.

Last weekend I was sitting on the porch enjoying my morning coffee, surveying my kingdom. Scampering along the top of the fence came one of my neighbors, intent on her own breakfast. I saw a chance to temporarily delay the inevitable, and chased her away. She didn't go far, just back to the corner of the yard, where she had a handy tree to jump to if I decided to take this to extremes.

For the next hour, we played our game. She'd come down, intent on stealing one of my green tomatoes. I watched for her, and chased her back down the line.

Inevitably, for she was hungrier than I, I was more intent on my phone conversation than the squirrel, and she managed to snag her prize.

She didn't run far before she stopped, took the precious morsel from her mouth, and took a bite. She looked back at me as if to say, 'I don't know what your problem might be - I just took one, and there are many more on the vine. Surely there are enough for you to share just one.'

*sigh*  I suppose.

I have managed to get a few for myself, by going out each morning and snagging them from the vine as soon as they show the slightest hint of turning from green to red, then leaving them to ripen on the counter top.  And one, one was hidden beneath the leaves, and I was able to pick it ripe from the vine. Warm from the heat of the sun, the explosion of sweet goodness was mine!

I win.

Torch: Passed

Iowa - sunset, moonrise

Last weekend was my niece Autumn's graduation party, so I trucked on up to Minnesota to celebrate with her and her family. The trip was good, if too short. (I swear I'm getting too old for these weekend to Minnesota trips every time I do one - and every time I do one, I'm glad I made the effort.)

I drove on up with my brother Ted on Friday night. The trip was the best kind - uneventful. Talked my sister into visiting REI with me on Saturday. (I like to shop up there because there are more tall women running around the area, and thus, a better selection of tall clothes in the store.) Saturday night, my local family was busy (what???  they have lives???), so I met up with my brother Tony from Iowa, and got to meet his new girlfriend (who seemed like a good gal).

To my surprise, Libby and Autumn decided to make time to show up at Saturday's dinner. (I was surprised because I didn't think they'd have the energy - they were throwing a big party the next day.) Libby's hair was gone again - she is on a new type of chemo - Lynparza - a new targeted type of therapy just approved for her type of cancer this past January. According to the ever-helpful internet, the drug targets an enzyme, PARP, fast-growing cells use to repair DNA damage. No repair, the cells die.

She hasn't been on it for too long, but she said it's working to shrink her tumors and slow their growth. She said her last scan showed places in her bones where the cancer had taken hold, and then been stopped. (How they can tell this from a scan, I have no earthly idea.)  Hallelujah! - anything that can give her more good days is a good thing! (Especially since she said the side effects haven't been too bad, given the givens.)

The party was Sunday afternoon. All of my siblings and many of their children came. I talked to everyone, then stood back for a minute to just watch. It was a proper grad party. There was a baby to be passed around, and a couple of four year-olds having a contest to see how high they could jump. Over at this table, the older adults gathered to share stories. Over there, young adults gathered; our children, who are children no more. The little ones belong to them now - my siblings and I are the older ones, the grandparents (and proud of it, thank you very much!). Our offspring have turned out to be competent adults, done with school, in long-term relationships, having children, holding down jobs, buying houses.

It was clear that, sometime in the last decade, the torch of life had been passed. And once again, though I thought I'd been watching for it, I'd missed it. *Dang!* Time is a funny beast. The days seem long, but the weeks and years pass by at an ever-increasing rate. And I think Frankl was right when he said, in Man's Search for Meaning:

In the past, nothing is irretrievably lost, but rather, on the contrary, everything is irrevocably stored and treasured. To be sure, people tend to see only the stubble fields of transitoriness but overlook and forget the full granaries of the past into which they have brought the harvest of their lives: the deeds done, the loves loved, and last but not least, the sufferings they have gone through with courage and dignity.

From this one may see that there is no reason to pity the old people. Instead, young people should envy them. It is true that the old have no opportunities, no possibilities in the future. But they have more than that: Instead of possibilities in the future, they have realities in the past -the potentialities they have actualized, the meanings they have fulfilled, the values they have realized -and nothing and nobody can ever remove these assets from the past."

It's not that my siblings and I have already reached the point where our futures are devoid of possibilities, but our harvests are certainly well under way. I do treasure my memories, love to sift through the past to find the places I did well, the times I made a difference in someone's life. It's comforting to know these deeds won't be erased, even if they won't be remembered - they have become the foundation blocks upon which the future is being built.

These were good thoughts to carry with me on Sunday's long drive home.

4th of July

Sometimes, I swear the holiday weeks seem longer and are harder to get through than the regular ones. It's the change in routine. Take this last week, for instance.

Monday was a regular Monday.
Tuesday was Friday, since it was the day before a day off. I like Fridays.
Wednesday was Saturday, since I had the day off. I really like Saturdays.
Thursday was Monday again. This is where it got tough. The second Monday of the week, doubly hard to get my keister into the office.
Friday was, thankfully, Friday.

I did enjoy the 4th. Sandwiched in the middle of the week as it was, I initially planned to keep it pretty low-key, but it turned into a bigger day than I'd planned.

What started it was a yen for baked beans like I remember from when I was a kid. You can't just make those kind of baked beans for just one person, so I picked up the phone and invited over some friends.

With seven people now coming for dinner, I got in touch with my inner chef. I woke up on Wednesday inordinately proud of myself for remembering to set the beans to soak the night before. I dug out some bacon from the freezer, chopped up an onion, mixed in all the ingredients and set it in the crock pot to stew for eight hours.

An hour or so later, I walked into the kitchen and inhaled, expecting the intoxicating aroma of cooking beans, bacon and onion. The stench which assailed my nostrils was not what I was expecting. Clearly, the bacon had gone bad. *Sadness*

Fortunately for my taste buds, I'd thrown an extra bag of navy beans in the cart when I was at the store; a little digging in the pantry uncovered enough ingredients to start over. Looking at the bag of hard beans, I knew my relatively cool and easy afternoon had just come to an end. Beans CAN be cooked in a day, but it involves hours of simmering on the stove top.

That's OK. What's the 4th of July without a little sweat? I spent the next few hours chopping for potato salad and anxiously tracking the progress of the beans, turning up the heat to make sure they softened on schedule. I chopped and precooked the bacon this time. (At least that way, if it was bad, I wouldn't have spoiled the entire new batch of beans.) I browned the onions in the grease, tossed the whole mix back into the crock pot and let it cook on high for the remainder of the afternoon.

Amazingly enough, it all came off (with a little help from my friends, who brought the watermelon and other desserts). Beans, burgers, potato salad, and chips - dinner tasted like a 4th of July dinner SHOULD taste. My inner eight year-old was in heaven.

Crawl Space

There's a guy at work who accuses me of being too quiet. Too head-down, too hard working, not enough socializing, not enough partying.

I'll admit he's got a point, and boy, oh boy, did I show him this past weekend. Yup. I spent Saturday insulating my crawl space. Can't get much better than that. (Can I????)

It was AWFULLY warm here in Kansas City, and I definitely didn't want to work outside, so I turned my attention to my list of inside to-dos. The oldest item on the list was insulating the crawl space under my no-longer-new addition. I've had all the piece parts I need to do the project for months (the original plan was to do it last winter), so there was no excuse there.

I still didn't want to do it. But, sometimes, you just gotta buckle down and do something, and so I did.

I got out my handy-dandy kitchen stool and crawled up into the opening, glad I'd been doing situps for these past few months. (It took some core strength to get across the lip of the old windowsill.) As I shimmied in, I had my eyes peeled for spiders and other small residents, but found no evidence they lived there, to my surprise. Guess there's not much to eat, even for a bug, in the space.

Encouraged, I took some measurements, wriggled my way back out, and spent about thirty minutes making little foam boards out of big foam boards.I tossed the boards back into the hole, grabbed some Liquid Nails and started to put the foam into place. Now, I can't remember who told me to use Liquid Nails to hold the foam in place, but they obviously never tried it with any size piece at all, because it didn't work. It would hold for just a moment, and then the piece would plop back down. I didn't let this deter me. I just started making little braces out of the extra foam I'd helpfully brought along with me, and wedged it into place.

Went back out, and got the expandy-foam-stuff to spray along the edges and in the cracks. It's fun to spray that stuff and watch it work, but boy is it a mess if it doesn't get where it belongs. It sticks to EVERYTHING. Fortunately, I'd learned this from past experience and (mostly) managed to avoid getting it on my skin. As a bonus, I'm pretty sure, between the wedges and the expanding foam, my work will stay in place. (When that stuff hardens, it STICKS!)

As I worked, the air grew stiller; I figured it was a good way to know I would see some benefit from my efforts. Three hours later, (covered in rock dust, which sticks very effectively to sweat, in case anyone needed to know) I was done. I have an impressive set of bruises on my knees and left butt cheek (who knew I lean more to one side than the other?) from spending too much time crawling around on the gravel, but they're victory bruises. Received in the line of duty.

When I got back to my list, I checked off "insulate the crawl space" with extra relish. Added an extra check mark just because I could.

Who needs a party to feel good?

Crying Children

When I was in upper elementary school, I was fascinated by the stories of the Holocaust. I read every story on the topic I could find. (Fortunately for the peace of my dreams, I didn't realize the accounts in the non-fiction section of the library contained anything of interest to me.)

One story in particular stuck in my head - about a family who hid those fleeing persecution behind a false wall in a bedroom. The author of the story was eventually hauled in on suspicion of harboring fugitives. Though the authorities had no concrete proof, it didn't take much for them to toss her into jail. While she was there, she got a letter from her sister, with the writing of the address slanted up towards the stamp. She knew her sister couldn't tell her in the letter if her people were safe, but she hunted the pages for clues anyways - as had the police. As she read and re-read the missive, it occurred to her that her sister didn't usually write at a slant. She carefully steamed the stamp off, and underneath, in tiny letters, it said, 'All the watches in your closet are safe." The refugees had made it to safety.  (I just looked it up - the one phrase I remembered was enough to identify the book as The Hiding Place, by Corrie ten Boom, a Dutch watchmaker. Sometimes, I really love the internet.)

I was intrigued by the concept of the false wall - one of the things I loved about my old house was that I could easily have built such a hiding place, had the need arisen. (My current house, sadly, not so much. It's highly symmetrical, with no good odd-shaped corners to enclose.)

The book and the false wall have been visiting my dreams regularly these past few weeks, unearthed by the images and sounds of the crying children at our borders. No, I've heard of no systemic system within the country to move those seeking asylum across it, (and I don't know where they'd be moved to if there was - would Canada take them in?), but I would join such a group in a heartbeat. It is always wrong to intentionally traumatize children.

I am grateful for the many voices more powerful than mine who have spoken up in chorus, defending the children's right to not be torn from the arms of their parents. It's a varied crew - all four living first ladies, members of the Democratic leadership galore, the news media, the Pope, and also many leaders from the conservative sector - Jerry Falwell, other evangelical leaders, members of the Republican House and Senate. Money has poured in to funds set up to assist these families. It is heartening to know I am not alone in my outrage and sorrow, even as it tears my soul to know I am part of a country whose leaders are repeating some of the most heart-wrenching mistakes of our history.

I pray this travesty will soon be behind us, that we will find a better way to track and house those who travel to the U.S.A. seeking asylum and refuge. I pray for the separated families, that they will soon be reunited.

And, to my surprise, I find myself praying for the young men and women who are following orders as they tear these families apart. History tells us their sleep will not be easy once the adrenaline from the moment has faded, and they hear over and over, in their dreams, the cries of the wronged children.

Hatred damages those who hate as well as those who are hated.

?Peace? Please???