Once and Future King!

The "Once and Future King"...is what they call Arthur in Camelot...(I told you I am a Classic Musical Junkie)...Being back in Santa Clarita is like being back in Camelot.  When I was on the School Board we often referred to our little valley as Mayberry...like with Aunt Bea and Opie...but I have always thought it was like Camelot, as there is a law in Santa Clarita that July and August can not be too hot...and there's a legal limit to the snow here! (once every 15 years or so, ask our Mayor).

Not like  Phoenix...where to go outside in June-Aug is like stepping into a kiln...it takes your breath away.  And for me, I usually turned and went back into my air conditioned apartment.  Air conditioning that never worked...or at least every few hours it went up to 82 as the set temperature until I began to sweat and realized it needed to be reset...We had the apartment complex engineer ( a guy who wore a work belt as his only qualification as to his expertise) fix it several times...each time he told me it was fixed, "I've re-set the thing." he told me with a firm voice...as if I had done something to the little dealio on the wall!

He fixed the air conditioner like the fountain outside our apartment got fixed, and the automatic gates for our secure complex...that never worked the whole time Patrick was there.  It was sad to look out on green scum and a huge (fake) rock stained with the water which once bubbled down the sides. I imagined that even it it got fixed it was a sad sight with it spitting up in the air from time to time...instead of a nice soothing flow of clear water.  As for the gates...I could never get the entrance to open so went out the exit which was always open.

8 Months, that's how long we were there and nothing as far as I could see got fixed.  That makes me glad I'm a home owner and have control over my own fate.  So if it takes 8 months or even two years to get in a new door...that is my problem.  And by the way...the last door to go in still waits patiently in the girl's bedroom untouched by human hands for, hmmmm, now let me see  2 YEARS...but whose counting!  At least it's in our hands and not some guy who's only claim to being a fix-it man is his jingling fancy belt and the keys to a jitney to drive around the complex.

As a parting shot Pat told me the day before he left they cut down my tree...please see the previous blog on my escape from the Jacuzzi area when my key wouldn't work to get me out!   That very tree was my path to freedom.  I could have escaped from Alcatraz with how my mind spun and whirled around planning how to get out of the stinking pressure cooker of a place and not become a blob on the concrete...cooked to well-done in the enclosure where I was trapped.  I guess I should be glad they didn't cut it down until we were checked out of the place...as it gave me a bit of comfort to look out our balcony across the green scum of the non working fountain to see the tree which had been my salvation.

Ah! YES...I'm glad to be back in Camelot with my King finally home...and of all things after these many years we have decided we really like each other and enjoy spending time together...We've decided we hate being apart...go figure!   

As seen on TV never works!

Before we lived in California, we lived in New Jersey and my dad's office was in New York.   He rode the train into the city every day with his sister who worked in the city too.  Then he was told he had to move 3,000 miles away to Hollywood where all the work seemed to be.  He was the financial controller of a sound production company,"Westrex, Sound Services." The newest growth in this area was on the west coast where studios popped up like mushrooms to put together "talkie" films.  My dad was involved in the transition from silent to talking movies so my mother brother and I went with him, off to the strange land of Hollywood California.

Up until then silent films were enhanced with a few written words and the creativity of an organist or person on the piano to help the plot.  Often the music played had nothing to do with what was happening on the screen but soon specialized musicians became sought after for their ability to play music and other inventive sounds to enhance a film.  The musician had to do this in the dark while watching the screen.  The acting on screen was overdone along with exaggerated facial expressions, the makeup and costumes were very bold to help tell the story and convey the plot.  Once sound was added the exaggerated actions and other things were slowly done away with along with some actors who had raspy or unattractive voices.

I remember as a child seeing my first TV.  We were living in our little post war, plastic door knob California house.  The neighbors down the street were the first in North Hollywood to buy one of those things with pictures inside...until then my brother and I would listen to the radio every Saturday morning.  We loved "The Lone Ranger", and the "Creaking Door"....

Of course before TV came the talking films.  My brother and I were allowed to walk to the theater most Saturdays to see the latest release.  They had a great deal in the candy shop next door to the theater.  If you bought a big candy, you got a free ticket.  We always got the candy, I don't think we ever told our parents about the deal.  The theater would have a serial where each week some woman was in peril and just when the white hat clad hero was about to save her from a train or other life threatening disaster it abruptly stopped...to be continued next week!  And the next week without showing how the woman was saved the story continued.  Then there was a news reel about the armed services or war pictures and next came a cartoon and two movies....it took most of the day and the candy was gone long before the string of films was completed. I was only six, and got very squirmy, considering I even now have a hard time sitting through an hour of church, I guess I should apologize for my wiggly pestering behavior to my brother.

Most evenings that first summer of live TV the neighbors would drag their new contraption out onto the front porch facing the yard.  Many would gather on the lawn sitting on blankets to watch the very small square of black and white moving pictures.  I became severely attached to Beanie and Cecil, and Howdy Doody.

It wasn't very long before we got a TV too! (I think ours was about one inch bigger than the neighbors, with a yellowish tint screen  which made everyone look jaundiced).  After all, my dad's studio was putting the sound track on most of the shows...as well as most of the films in theaters so we were supporting his studio by watching those shows.

I continued to love watching my kiddie shows, except after a short time Howdy Doody was banned in our house...don't ask me why...my mom simply hated the show. But I would sneak watching it whenever she did the laundry and pulled the washing machine into the middle of the kitchen.  The machine made so much noise...I could have bombed the front room down and she would never have know.  I dreamed of being Princess Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring.  And sometimes still do.

Soon after my introduction to TV....I was introduced to TV commercials.  The Popiel potato peeler was amazing to my 6 year old eyes.  I wanted my mom to get one in the worst way but of course having adult common sense she never even budged to buy one.  I can't say I have always been so strong.  It could be I was  deprived of TV gadgets as a child so frequently feel I must sample many of the ones I can get my hands on...but I am finally beginning to gain some restraint. 

I have determined gadgets never work as advertised or demonstrated!  I havent' recently bought many "As seen on TV items" until I had a bank account hacked and my grand daughter saw a special metal wallet on TV.  It protected all contents from scanners so no one could get your credit card numbers. She told me I needed one of these wallets because it not only protected your credit cards it was said to be indestructible and could be run over by a truck and stay intact.  So I folded and got one for me and then one for my mom.  I used it for about a month and it seemed to work, then one day I dropped it!  Of COURSE...after it hit the concrete of the market floor with a tinny thunk,  the latch made out of plastic broke...now it won't stay closed. 

The wallet was only $10 but come on...if a truck can drive over it, how cum if I drop it, all of a sudden it breaks!  I guess, as with most of those gadget things...you can't win!  I am hoping Wallmart will take it back!   

Cleaning to Re-claim my home!

I returned from Arizona the state of guns and heat!...scary actually when you think of them together. I came home to an empty home, a blessed empty home!  I don't think I have had that pleasure in several years...because we have a large home it seems many of our kids have used it as a stopping off place...some for several years at a time; bringing "their" kids with them.

Closets I had used to put winter clothing (Yes in California there is a bit of change in the weather.) were confiscated by the "visiting" family member and hangers on...to have my stuff squished into a very small space in our bedroom.  I had one daughter state that growing up she thought I was selfish because I wanted my own things, including my own bathroom.  I think she forgot I shared most everything with a very large...often dirty from work, man.

The house was quiet, WOW! neato.  And to think I had longed for noise when the last kid moved out, now it was heaven.  The frantic cleaning and picking up began...don't forget I have a bit of OCD so I decided the only piles would be in the garage.  It took almost three days from morning until late at night to get all the stuff left in the two rooms most recently lived in, sorted and packed ready for pick up with the next visit here.  I folded and sorted and compressed toys, clothing and other bits into boxes...and piles for the garage.  After muscling them down the stairs and safely into the darkness of the garage.  I re-claimed the closets neatly putting my things in rows on new hangars getting all ready for when Patrick will move back from Chandler in a few weeks.

Purge is the word Patrick loves, almost more than any other.  Subsequently I always seem to have something to put out to donate to the blind...don't ask me how those blind folks find the house, but they do!   I have done my best not to bring anything new into the house for a few years now, except needed clothing, or food, so when we move, or go on a mission we can travel light...Ha! if packing up over 32 years of living in one house will be light.

I have decided for the most part we could sell a lot of the furniture in a garage sale.  None is as nasty as the green velvet couch that was propped up on a rock we wanted to take to the Rose Parade and leave it there!  But I am assuming the our much smaller abode will call for lots less stuff.  I don't want to use a storage place...I decided if you have so much stuff it won't fit where you live...you do need to purge.

The weird thing is I have discovered the majority of our stuff are memories.  Genealogy, mementos of trips that bring back fond memories...a plethora of photos.  (for the past 3-5 years they are now on digital Cd's).  I thought I could part with the two boxes I have stored under our bed, but after a very careful look I think I discarded only a few papers.  I'm not sure why, but some things are too difficult to put in the junk heap, and who knows it may be worth something someday.

For example, my 1984 Olympic box.  It has certificates, photos, my medical uniform...including shoes and hat, as well as daily dot-matrix print outs of winners and items of interest.  I collected pins during that time because as a thank you for medical treatment I was often given a team or other type of pin.  I usually did not have anything to trade back, so all my 50 or so pins I have in a case hung in the living room were gifts.

The journal I kept for the first few weeks at various venues was interesting.  I read that my first call was to work at Lake Casitas as medical staff for Rowing and Canoeing,  then soon after came another call to assist with the children who were part of the opening ceremonies.  Then weeks went by with no communication.  In August of 1983 I got a letter to send in my forms again and began to realize there was confusion between different agencies.  In October, then November I got requests to fill out additional paperwork.  I began to think I needed my own xerox machine.  Always the letters stated how lucky we were to be able to donate our time!  Two more sets of forms arrived in late November and again in December.

Then nothing for several months and in April of '84 I got a request to attend orientation at Daniel Freeman Hospital...we were all fingerprinted and told we would work at various sport venues for athlete or spectator first aid.  Some were told they would work checking for drugs (tinkle patrol) after each competition.  I was glad I was not selected for that job.

Four meetings in May resulted in my assignment to the photo journalists and International Broadcasting, mostly at CBS studio.  I finally got my credentials and uniform.  I met the other nurses working at the venue, and most are from Henry Mayo Hospital where I work.  So many meetings now I am away from the kids too much, but Patrick is picking up the slack.  We now are meeting many of the athletes who come to the venue to be interviewed and will be able to watch what is happening at several of the venues at once on huge monitors.

My Journal is very detailed and I am not sure how I kept it up as I was crazy busy at that time.  How can I throw it away! Or any of the papers, photos or memories...so I won't!  I cleaned off the dust from the top of the plastic container...and shoved it back under the bed.

Maybe I'll have better luck getting rid of some of my stuff in the den...maybe!

Herding the gophers next door; payback after all these years!

Happy to be home!  It took one hour on a bumpy plane to get from Phoenix to Burbank and then 20 min on the freeway to get back home.  Nothing had changed, it was nice to sleep in my great memory foam bed.  We bought a topper for the lumpy monster they put into the bedroom at the Chandler Apartment, but it was not the same.  You see I am a bit like the princess and the pea, and must have smooth sheets with a very very soft mattress.  Also since Patrick found a scorpion in the Chandler apartment dishwasher and a cockroach as big as a Volkswagen in the bedroom...I'm glad to be home with lizards...and some mice... but I think we have driven the gophers into the neighbors yard.

Now how fair is that. Oh, payback is sweet...you will soon understand, just stay with me.  I bought these thumpers like in the movie Dune.  In that movie the thumper attracted huge worms.  These thumpers seem to bother the gophers and send them elsewhere.  So where do they go???
I figure next door right under the fence.  That's not nice but I am tired of having my lawn ruined.  It's the neighbors' turn to figure out how to get rid of them...

I tried to be kind to the critters...filling the holes with water (one time the hole never filled up...It went to china)  I put burning negatives inside...my dad said the toxic smoke would drive them away...Not so!  It didn't work...Then I put a week's worth of dog poop in the holes...and drove it deeper into the hole with a little water...guess they ate the poop.  Maybe they thought it was chocolate.  It was embarrassing when my daughter found me wearing gloves on my hands and knees with a bucket of dog dooty carefully snaking those long turds down the many holes in the lawn.

"What are you doing!"  When I told her my plan she scornfully said I was nuts and walked away, not even offering to help.  WELL I NEVER!   Soon after that I got the battery powered thumping things. 

Now here's where the pay back comes...Ever since we got married my husband has never mowed the lawn.  Why you ask?  He gets severe attacks of hay fever and asthma.  His behavior for the next few hours after an attack is like a bear awakened from his winter nap...not fun!   So it was not worth it to even ask. 

At first we had a push mower. (It was all we could afford)  As a strong 20 something young woman it was good exercise...that lasted for a while and the neighbors always asked, (Especially when I was pregnant,)  "Where is your husband."  I took to mowing in the dark.

Then we got a power mower...I think for "Mother's Day", how thoughtful.   The first one was a push power mover, and when that thing gave it's last gasp, we finally got one that self-propelled...that one was scary because it mowed over anything in it's path and I continued to mow at night because I was afraid one of the kids would run in front of it and get hurt.

My worst nightmare came true when one day I heard the thing fire-up and soon after heard a yell.  Colleen must have been about ten and ran up the stairs yelling that little Pat hurt his leg on the lawn mower.  I heard screaming and loud yelling from outside.  I looked out the upstairs window to see little Pat rolling on the lawn clutching his leg with blood everywhere.  My worst nightmare had happened.

I ran down the stairs across the kitchen and through the sliding glass doors like lightning.  BUT, the second I rounded the corner where I could clearly see little Pat my medical brain processed the fact that the blood, was not blood...at least it wasn't the right color...it looked like (and was) a mixture of ketchup and bar-b-q sauce.

The second I realized it was a hoax and had begun to react, a bucket of water hit me from above where Rebecca was perched on the roof and then the full stream from the hose hit me squarely in the chest, of course it was directed by my dear husband. The incident escalated with water from buckets, bowls and three active hoses.  The battle somehow moved inside the house without even a blink from dad-Patrick or me.  It was war!  I ended up with the girl team Colleen, Rebecca and Megan with the boys on the dad side.  Somehow that seemed quite even and we ladies held our own.  Then after an hour or so we called it a tie and declared a truce. 

Our neighbors looked on with amazement cheering on their favorite team and taking a few wayward buckets of water themselves.  In fact the third hose was contributed over the fence with the water coming from next door.  We girls called foul, but no one paid us any attention.  It took a day or two for the carpet to dry out, and we got the flood off the floor in the kitchen before the linoleum rolled and curled up at the edges, Thank goodness it was a very warm day.  

Hmmm.  Then I realized I've finally paid back the neighbors for the extra hose they passed over the fence to the boy team all those years ago...and no matter it's not the same neighbors living there...they get the gophers! 

Packin' heat in Wallmart...enter Arizona at your own risk!

(This is the "No Firearms" sign was on the door of the Italian restaurant where we had dinner...in upper state Az.)
 
Arizona is very different from other states we discovered last weekend.  We went to a little town in Northern Arizona to get away from the heat...it was only 92 in the daytime, instead of 115, and went down to 69 at night.  Even the water from the tap was cool...not cold mind you...but at least cool. There were a few pines and mountains which is a change from the flat around here in Chandler near Phoenix.  Flat, flat, flat....

We went out to dinner the first night we were in Payson.  I noticed on the door was a sign warning to not carry a weapon inside. Since neither of us had ever seen such a sign we decided it must be on all restaurants in Arizona.  But then as we drove back to the motel, I looked at the numerous fast food places...every fast food place I had ever seen was present within the space of two blocks...(except In-n-out) Anyway, none of them had the special sign.

It wasn't until the next night when we went to get a burger we figured out how the law must work.  The burger place had a small bar area in the corner of the establishment.  And there again was the sign...no firearms.  I came to the conclusion that any place where they serve alcohol you are not allowed to carry a loaded firearm...into the establishment. (See photo above) 

We recently discovered the State of Arizona has a state gun...the Colt 45.  An interesting and cool fact I thought, until I went into Wall-mart and saw a young man with a gun strapped to his hip in the check out line.  

It was out there for everyone to see, so it wasn't a concealed weapon.  (I wanted to get a concealed carry license for my Glock, here in Arizona, but guess it's okay if I just wear it hanging from my purse.) I know you need a permit to carry a concealed weapon, like in a shoulder holster under your coat...but this was in the open! 

I mentioned the semantics to Patrick..."It wasn't concealed...right out there in the open like when we were on a train in Italy and a bunch of guys came on with Uzi's over their shoulders."  That experience was intimidating and a bit scary.  But then again the military men were in uniform and you knew they had at least trained to use their weapon, quite different from feeling confident about a dad shopping for bananas packing a gun on his hip!  

After we got home our son Patrick shared and article he read about a guy in Chandler who shot his penis by having his gun in his waist band in Fry's groceries...the same store where we shop...I'm not sure if I would offer first aid help to a guy so stupid he didn't have on the safety...but most likely my nurse self would take over...Or NOT!

After seeing the Wallmart packin' dad, I thought...what if a guy was drinking at a bar without his gun...then went down the street to Safeway fully drunk...but he could have his gun in there!  Maybe that's what happened to the guy in Fry's

I'm using Helvecta type, sans serif (without curly cues)...the kind required at a book submission I recently sent off....(Still working on the "Chiasmus Cipher"), the deadline was close so after changing from my Times Roman, all my spacing was off...I quickly went through my 111,000 word novel...Ha! and it was sent in with many problems in spacing among other things I have found..so I don't have a rat's chance of anyone reading it...DARN!

"Mom, , Shut up! Muskrat"

Does anyone else have the problem of language accent copycat disease?  Gosh! OCD confirmation and now I admit my other problem, all my warts are hanging out!...Oh well...
It seems, or so I'm told that no matter what language I hear, or accent in particular, it doesn't take long for me to begin to talk like the other person who is talking.  It can't stay in my head...it just comes out my lips and lands most likely on unappreciative ears.

This ability is good for an actress, but not so good in our diverse society where everyone is oversensitive and the language police are ready to sue you.

This "talent" became a problem one time when I visited Rebecca.  It was January and I was there to help with the birth of her second son, Zachary.  (He came during a huge snow an ice storm on Jan 18)   It so happened that Becca and her husband were living in Upper Marlboro in a home owned by Harris's Aunt Carolyn.  She happened to be working in Japan teaching nursing at a university and asked Harris and Becca to house sit.

This town home was almost new and in a lovely area not too far from Washington D.C. where Harris worked so it was perfect for them to save money to buy their own home.

The issue came up that it was located in a predominately black area.  The people living there were business men and women and very friendly and generous.  During winter storms they would often shovel each others driveway at the same time they cleared their own.  It had a very neighborly feeling there.  Harris and Becca were one of the only white families living in this tight knit neighborhood.. 

So...back to my problem...The last thing Becca wanted to do was offend anyone she knew or even a stranger, so being aware of my little malady, she said..."Mom when we are around our neighbors, or any black people in stores or the mall...just don't talk.  If you forget, I'll remind you by saying Muskrat...and that means to shut up because you are imitating the black way of speech!"

"I don't do that on purpose!" I defended myself,  "but I'll try to not do it, it just comes out...It wouldn't matter if they were Irish, English or German, or from the south..it makes no difference...all of a sudden I become a native ...or whatever...speaking English with an accent.  I don't know what to do...the accent comes into my head and automatically come out...like a boomerang.  But I'll try to remember the magic word because I certainly don't want to offend anyone."

It was several days before Becca went into labor so i had the opportunity to go with her to the store several times.  We were standing in front of the frozen food section looking at the ice cream and trying to decide on the flavor to  buy when a huge black woman said in a friendly and kind way.  "Honey chile, see that there sign...you can get two for the price of one, and from the looks of you with that big tummy, you need some cheerin up, so ges get all the flavors you want, en yll feel better in a few days wehn it's all over...say...when you due...today? hehe..."

Becca responded..."Muskrat, muskrat...shut up mom"...under her breath, then louder in response to the woman, "Oh thanks, I didn't know it was on sale, I'm due in a few days and can hardly wait."

"I know how you feel, I got six of my own and they are the joy of ma life, a blessing and a curse...nice you got yer mama here to help."


I opened my mouth to respond, but Rebecca stepped hard on my foot and said, "yes, I'm glad she's here, thanks."

The woman continued on down the isle and Becca picked up two gallons of ice cream.

"I was good wasn't I?"  I questioned her while rubbing my throbbing foot.

"Mom, you almost blew it.  I could see it in your face, you were about to say something like mmmmum Honey chile, and sound like the south in a bottle.  I couldn't chance it.  You'll go home and I'll be left unable to shop here because they'll  think your a racist making fun of them....Look!, all the cash register ladies are black tool."

The next day, we went to a place near D.C. famous for ribs...they have bars on the front of the store and you stand in a line with others waiting for your turn to see the woman inside covered with barbeque sauce hold up on a hook, different racks of ribs for your perusal for you to decide which rack you want.  "Mom stay in the car with Jamie, I'll get the ribs."

It took a while but she returned and said in a perfect black immitation..."Had to wait for more ribs, those ones was too dri, not enough meat, or too much fat...so it took a while."

"Hey how come it's okay for you and not for me?" I asked. 

"The difference is, I do it on purpose, out of hearing distance of the folks it may offend, you on the other hand, have no idea it's emerging from your mouth, and the longer you talk the thicker and worse the accent becomes...so it's best for you...to Muskrat and not talk."

So I simply nodded and kept any words that came to mind...deep inside.  And if you ever hear anyone in the family say Muskrat around me...you'll know I'm about to say something with an accent or something out of place...I'm not sure how they know it's about to happen, maybe it's family telepathy or something, but I've discovered...they know, oh they know alright...and I need to listen for the magic words...Muskrat...and shut my trap.

I have OCD, a black thumb and mosquito bite resistance...But that's Okay cuz I got piles!

I am looking at some fake red and blue flowers in a water glass as I type. I put them there so I’m not looking at a blank wall, or the thermostat…If I had real flowers within a very short time they would be dead…so I don’t try to grow them anymore.  I know that sounds like a cop-out, but it’s true. I figure it gives the people who make fake flowers a job.

Now my mom has a really really green thumb…she planted a seed from a grapefruit one time in the back yard when I was a kid after we moved to California from New Jersey...and years later when she moved out to Santa Clarita after my dad passed away…one of the sad things was that she had to leave behind this huge grapefruit tree and the amazing crop of fruit it produced every year. 

At least I can look out the window here at the Chandler Apartment and see some grass…mostly rocks, but some grass and cactus too.  Arizona landscape is done up with rocks, and a few scattered cactus…and the Grackle bird struts about on the rocks;  an intriguing fellow who looks somewhat like a blackbird, but sounds like about 8 other birds and walks everywhere.  Must be too hot to fly!

At my Mom’s condo in Valencia…she has so many plants it looks like a jungle, and I don’t think she does much more than water them…but it must be like mosquito bites…Okay, how does that connect.  It does because it's one of those things no one understands. Some can grow plants...others can't. (mostly I forget to water, then water them too much!) 

The mosquito bite anomaly: (some are plagued by them, others never get a bite) 
I can be camping in an area where everyone is covered with bug bites and I won’t have one.  I’m not sure if they don’t like me, I’m sour or what but, I never get any, no matter how many of the critters are in the area…they just go for other meat!

One time we went camping and Patrick became breakfast, lunch and dinner for every flying insect known to man.  His forehead was so swollen it looked like Frankenstein.
I wasn’t even an appetizer…go figure…the same goes for plants…just not happening for me…go figure!

Well after being here in Chandler for four weeks I have confirmed my OCD.  Now I know I count steps, and have for some time.  This can be extremely annoying especially now that I am in an upstairs apartment.  I know there are 18 steps to get up here…, or 60 steps out to the car in the parking lot...the same as I know there are 13 steps to the landing and three down to the floor at our house in Calif…however that does not seem to stop me, every stinking time I go up or down…like a mantra in my head 1-2-3-4…for those of you who do not have this malady “count” it as a blessing.  Get it ha! Count.  There must be other symptoms, but mine are sporadic, so maybe my case is transitory.  Don’t expect my house to be spotless, like they say OCD victims have their homes...I have piles. It's the way I can be neat, and organized...Piles.

Piles of bills, piles of sewing and craft projects…piles of paper with half finished poems, or ideas for stories all over the place…don’t move one of my piles!  I will get to it eventually.  In fact while I’ve been here in Chandler away from distractions ...somewhat…I have completed several of my piles.  

I brought an entire suitcase of piles with me to work on.  You see...I start a project, and before it’s done move to another.  Sometimes it is years before I get back to that particular pile, but eventually I do.  Really I do!  Yes...I’ve finished several of the piles I brought with me, but sorry to say, I have started a few new piles…I like piles.  it's a way to be able to work on several things at once. I cannot sit still. I don't know why and have a terrible time sitting for 3 hours in church...I just must multi-task to keep from jumping out of my own skin. Watching TV and sewing, knitting and listening to a book, writing a book and thinking about my next nursing class.

 I know my kids for years have said I never sit down, or if I do it's not for long.  But with five kids, I got an amazing amount of stuff done because of multitasking and my piles, and pretty much doing two or three things at once.  Like today, I'm sewing, listening to a book and doing laundry...maybe some vacuuming too.

So in the long run, for me anyway, I guess OCD and a few other odd things have been a blessing, no mosquito bites, and I can just leave the plant growing to others with that special something...I don't have.  I have enough to do anyway. I Got Piles!

An encouraging thought

Many that live deserve death, many that die deserve life

Be not so eager to deal out judgement before you know which is which

...or if it even matters

And realize before this life is over trials will come to us all

I truly wish they did not and we did not have to deal with such things

But this is not for us to decide, 

All we can decide is what to do with the situation and the time we have been given

And Make choices given to us carefully and with wisdom

Know that there are many forces at work beyond our control, 

Some and really most are much more powerful than evil.

And that is an encouraging thought!

Old friends, good times...Beach Boy re-wind.

Recently it seems there has been a rush for reunions.  Now as far as I'm concerned high school reunions are a waste of time.  The last one I went to I was in the bathroom and overheard two women talking and one said, "I don't know why I came...that witch...I hated her then and hate her even more now."  Then at a table near where I sat I heard one guy state..".don't tell me what your husband does and how rich you are...tell me what YOU have been doing." 

After that, I look at the notices that arrive from time to time, both for my Husband and myself about reunions and I can say without a second glance they land in the trash...immediately.

My only dear friend remaining from my high school days has lived in Italy with the handsome foreign exchange student she met in the 60's...Lois Heckman, who became Lois Merlotti and I have vowed if we ever go to a high school reunionl...we will go together...and since for several years now she has only come to visit around Christmas time I doubt that trip will ever occur!   Most of the reunions are in the summer.   We have remained friends for many reasons even though the miles separate us.

First and foremost we have always been honest and supportive of each other...through high school, during college and after.  I can truly say I love and adore her even though many years and several wrinkles have caught us, which we both seem to be able to ignore without comment.  Second her two kids are the same age as my first two...Our husbands are great friends and enjoy our Christmas bar-b-Q dinners almost as much as Lois and I do...imagine that!  We were in each other's wedding, and as far as I know we two are the only ones of our gang  (except for Al Fridley who lives in Austrailia and is a  Vet), who have kept in touch since we were in the first graduating  class from Grant High School

...And then the last rather amazing fact is at the same time her daughter went to Pepperdine University to college, and I became her back-up mom, (since her mom was so far away)  my son was a missionary in Milan Italy and she became his back up mom and support, but most of all Renzo, (who is very Catholic), was a cheerleader for our son Patrick in his Mormon missionary efforts.  Interesting as for us anyway we have no choice of where our kids serve missions.  And Chiarra, an Italian talented artist, and beauty as well as a very lovely girl chose to attend Pepperdine in Malibu California out of all the Universities she could attend.

Getting together with them each year has been the extent of my reunion fever...so when we attended a church reunion of a priest group from the North Hollywood third ward it was a shock, to say the least, when we had such a great time we almost had to be swept out of the building at 11:00.  The event was to end at 9:00 and all were having such a wonderful time playing remember when....no one wanted to leave.

One of the families who where there many members strong were the Mason's,  Tommy, Gary...and an older brother who married LaRee Gibb and then connected those families forever.  LaRee's brother Ron Gibb is a photographer and I have seen him throughout the years as he does a lot of the photos for the Hart District where I served as a Board Member for 16 years.  It was such a rush to see them all.

Especially Tom for me as he was the quiet kid who mowed our lawn and raked our leaves, most of the time getting the leaves in a heap and then getting one of our little kids to lay in the pile with him and look at the clouds.  Tom was one I remember working with as he was so scared to give a church talk and I was supposed to be helping tutor those who were to give talks in church.  He was so scared his voice shook, the papers on the pulpit shook and his face was beet red.  I remember he did a great job, and I was so proud...but years later when he was put in as a Bishop in some Utah ward, he called me the night before he was to be sustained to thank me for helping him and being such a support.  Even to this day I get a lump in my throat thinking about that call.  I have seen him a few times since he got married and moved away, but every time I see him I can't see the grown handsome man he has become.  It's weird, he will always be the awkward little kid who was so sweet, obedient and scared to get in front of the congregation to say a few words.

That night it was so fun to see so many old friends....to be continued.

The Chiasmus Cipher, Chapter Three, The toxin spreads!

Chapter 3

2020, Thursday June 13,

St. Johns’ Hospital

Phoenix Arizona

The ICU waiting room was cold and impersonal.  The walls were blank except for a plaque above the reception desk honoring an organ donor.  Not exactly an uplifting environment to spend six hours waiting to see a critical friend.  His broad hunched-over shoulders and folded-hand quiet demeanor didn’t give a hint to the turmoil within his head.  Thoughts raced as Chance went over the past 12 hour nightmare he was trapped in.  The more he thought, the more his head hurt, and he had more questions than answers. 

His best friend and partner in the most worthwhile pharmaceutical research project he had ever known was down the hall behind a door fighting for his life with no clue as to what had happened or what was wrong.  Eddie lay in a tangle of tubes and monitors staring at the ceiling unable to move.  The machine next to his bed hissed oxygen into his lungs expanding with each compression of the bellows.  The tube down his throat through his vocal cords prevented him from any communication.  The last time Chance had been allowed at his bedside; Eddie was illuminated by the eerie green glow of numerous monitors above the bed and looked up at him with petrified eyes. 

“Hey buddy,” Chance had said hesitantly.

“We’re going to take care of this, don’t you worry.  Just a little setback.  I talked to your brother and he’s called your family.  I’m sending tickets to get them over here as soon as possible.”

Eddie stared back, with strange brown tinged tears running down his cheeks.

“Can you move at all?”  Chance leaned over and looked at his friend’s limp non-responsive fingers.  There was no movement, not even a twitch. He had been warned not to touch Eddie, and they had given him a yellow gown, gloves, N95 mask, and clear eye goggles to wear. He was only there for a few minutes when the neurologist came in to introduce himself and then asked him to leave.  He had been in the waiting room ever since.

When Eddie didn’t show up to work or answer his cell on Wednesday, Chance figured he was just having a tantrum.  But when he didn’t show up by late afternoon on Thursday, he was more than mad at his slacker friend and stormed out of the office, making the trip to Eddie’s condo complex in less than 10 minutes.  After banging on the door for a while, he checked the under ground garage and found Eddies’ black Jeep in its usual place.  He went back to the front of the apartment, working his way around to the side of the building and then hurdled over the low wall into the patio enclosure.  The sliding door was unlocked and he called out as he crossed the sparsely decorated living room.  The book case covered walls were loaded with botanical textbooks loose papers and an old microscope.  The computer on the corner desk was blinking the alert that mail was waiting and he saw the bedroom door was open.  Calling out again, Chance hoped Eddie was not hung over with some girl sharing his leaky old college waterbed. 

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he went through the door.  Eddie was sprawled across blood covered sheets looking at him with watery dim eyes.  His mouth chewed at the air and his breath came in intermittent gasps.

“Eddie what happened?  Who did this to you?” 

Chance’s first thought was that he had been attacked or robbed, or someone had tried to get him to tell about their research.  He ran to the phone and called 911. He was worried Ed would stop breathing at any moment.

Eddie was not moving except, for a spasm in his finger and his barely blinking eyes releasing bloody brown fluid.  The blankets seemed to be wrapped around his legs, but Chance was afraid to touch anything for fear of hurting him and kept saying so over and over.

“It’s okay, help is coming, it’s okay.  We’ll find the bastard who did this to you.”

Chance’s mind raced, “What in the world had happened?  Was there a break in?  Did someone at one of the other labs hear about their research and try to beat it out of poor Eddie?”  He knew research espionage was getting as common as carjacking, but this was over the line.

Chance raged inside. “Has Sutton, our other partner, told someone about their success with neuron-blockers for pain and cancer treatment? That guy has been a worry ever since we started the experiments.  He has loose lips, the big slob, always bragging about something or other.  What an idiot!”

Chance had gone over every possible scenario by the time the paramedics arrived which was in just under 5 minutes.  After they moved Eddie onto the gurney, the paramedics asked Chance , “Does this guy have prosthetic legs, or a wheelchair we should take in the ambulance?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well he’s an amputee, right?”

As they maneuvered Eddie through the door, Chance could now see that his legs weren’t there—they were just gone. What Chance thought were blankets wrapped around Eddie’s legs were just—blankets, and lots of bloody gunk, no legs at all. 

Chance didn’t make it to the bathroom sink before he lost his lunch.  He was only aware of the panic that squeezed his chest like a vice.  When he finally found the hospital waiting room in the maze of halls, he slouched down in the nearest chair and stared at a blurry smudge on the wall.  He was in shock.

2200, Thursday June 13,

NASA Research, Ames Center

Modesto, California

           

            George Meyers was at his desk, working late, going over reports and reviewing the data about mutated toads sent in by his three field researchers.  The phone rang as he was gathering up for the weekend. 

       “Pick-up George,” the switch board operator said, “I know it’s after hours but this guy sounds panicked.  He says he tried to call the Biohazard team at Fort Detrick but they’re not answering.  They’re three hours ahead of us— they must be gone already.”          

George made the call and the fear in the voice on the other end of the line was tangible, “We have a situation here at St. John’s Hospital in Phoenix.  I’m Doctor Leonard Barnes from the emergency room. Let me give you a description of what we just got through our doors.” He took a deep breath and began his initial assessment details.  “A young Asian male of about 26 years presented in critical condition.  He was found by a friend who was concerned after he didn’t show up to work for two days.  Look, to make it short, I think we may have a form of Ebola.  We’re examining cultures, but so far there’s no evidence of bacteria, so we guess it’s a virus—maybe a toxin, or bio-weapon.  Something’s invaded his body, gone systemic.  We don’t know where or how.  Whatever it is, has liquefied muscle and bone, leaving nothing but a pool of fluid tissue where his limbs were.  This guy evidently went to bed fully intact and woke sometime the next day with no feeling in his body from the chest down.  Difficulty breathing, fluid in his lungs and no movement in the upper body.  Somehow his neuro-system shut down and blocked any sensation of pain.  This guy is dissolving right before our eyes.”

       George, listened and became increasingly alarmed, “Go on.”

      “We questioned his friend who says the subject was on a camping trip last weekend someplace in Southern Utah.  They both work at Alpha Sigma Pharmaceutical here in town.  His friend saw him Tuesday night and says other than feeling tired from the trip, he looked fine.”

        “How fast can you get a sample out here?”

       “I can send an emergency over-night drop, and I’ll send one to Maryland too, even though I couldn’t get a hold of anyone from their bio-epartment.  The bureaucracy there is thick!”  

       “Send the sample to Ft. Detrick, care of Admiral Bernie Albee, attention Bio-Contamination Department.  He’s a long time friend from the academy and I’ll make sure he’s alerted to look for it.  What other symptoms do you see?”

       “We got him on a ventilator as soon as he arrived.  He was close to respiratory arrest. His lungs are full of a brown liquid that has a musty fungus-like odor. I got a negative test for pseudomonas.  He has congestive heart failure, is now paralyzed up to his nose. He can still blink, but his pupils are non reactive to light.  No bowel sounds, I think the stuff is attacking the abdominal wall and may be into the chest cavity, but it’s hard to tell.  The MRI is all blurry—as if he’s a giant marshmallow throwing the scan off.  We’ve been pouring in blood and plasma through a peripheral jugular line, but it runs right out multiple open wounds we’ve tried to cauterize with no luck. He has 4+ edema and his skin is splitting open like he was boiled too long.  He’s not maintaining blood pressure.  Soon after he got here, he went non-responsive so he couldn’t tell us anything much.” 

       “Oh, I forgot to tell you, his friend said he had an itchy rash on his leg the other night.  That’s it so far, but this guy is going to code blue any minute now and everyone is getting spooked.  I don’t think one person will step up to do chest compressions.  If this is communicable, we could be in real trouble.  The paramedics are scared.  We put them in full contact and air borne isolation.”

“Good, keep it contained, what ever ‘it’ is.  Everyone who has been in any minor contact from lab personnel to custodial picking up the trash must be kept on site until I can get a team working on this.  Where did you say he was camping?  I’ll stay here until I get a look at that sample and have some sort of lead.  Now, what did this guy do at Alpha Sigma?  Was he a paper pusher, or on the research team?  Find out if they’re doing anything in toxin studies at that lab.  I know they use a lot of botanicals in their products.  That may give us a clue.” 

“I’ll see if I can find out, I think his friend is still here, but he hasn’t given us very much information.  Let me give you my pager number so you can let me know if you get anything from that sample.”

George pulled out his cell phone and punched the number into the memory.  “What’s the hospital number too?  I’ll see what I can do about contacting Ft. Detrick; you have enough to do keeping everything contained.  Try not to start a panic, but don’t let anyone who has had direct contact leave until we know what we’re dealing with.  I’ll be in touch. Thanks for the heads-up Leonard.”

George sat back and took a deep breath, trying to recall the phone number of his old Annapolis friend.  He hadn’t seen Bernie Albee in several years.  George left the military after his first tour of service was up.  It may have had something to do with his submarine assignment.  His commanding officer tried to guilt him into signing up again, but the close quarters and loneliness of sub-duty didn’t fit his gregarious personality and by the end of his tour he was grumpy and claustrophobic.

Bernie received a much more desirable assignment and stayed in the military, eventually ending up in Maryland at Ft. Detrick.  George remembered from their last contact, Bernie was doing some of the work with anthrax.  He reached across his desk to the worn rolodex and found the section with his college buddies. 

It was past midnight in Maryland and the initial response to the ringing phone was tired and impatient.  Explaining quickly, without pleasantries, George launched into the litany of facts and concerns.  By the time he stopped to take a gulp of air, his old friend on the other end was fully awake and planning a way to lock down the spread of what seemed to be a fast moving lethal organism. 

Bernie was obviously worried.  “Ever since the last incident of Ebola in South Africa, and then the similar one in Vietnam, I’ve been afraid something like this was coming our way.  Not from terrorists, or even a natural spread, but someone fooling around with materials they don’t understand.  Travel is so fast and easy these days, and our borders so porous they’re a joke.”

His voice rose in indignation, “Anyone can get anything in or out if they want.  There’s anthrax missing from one of the military labs right now, and a lobby is under way by the World Health Organization to destroy the last small pox strains we have in the deep freeze.  All we need is some idiot, who has a secret stash, to start an epidemic and then we’re in the middle of an unstoppable outbreak.  Look at Mad Cow, the rise of unexplained encephalopathy and the travel of flu strains from Asia.”

“Yeah, I know Bernie.”

“Didn’t you say the patient was Asian?  Has he been out of the country recently?  Do you know if he’s native, or where he’s from?

“I don’t know, but I’ll try and find out.  Keep in touch and call me when that specimen gets there or if you get any other ideas.  The hospital has the communicable disease unit involved so they’re handling the Arizona end.  Sorry to call you with this one, but I figured you’d have the resources to help me out.”

“Thanks …I think.”

George put back the receiver and knew all he could do now was wait for the delivery to arrive.  Then he remembered he had one of his research team assistants doing work in Southern Utah and pulled up the information on the computer glowing on his desk. It was already past ten and with the hour time difference it was eleven in Utah; he stopped dialing and decided to wait and call Tory Hunt in the morning.

What's a Haboo...aboo?

Happy 4th...we went to Fredonia...now Fredonia population about 900 is the only town in Arizona on the North side of the Grand Canyon, besides the polygamist town...Colorado City, Oh! and the Indian reservation for Paiutes.  They are all located on what is called the Arizona Strip.  Anyway Fredonia is a dead city because of the shut down of the lumber industry in the Kaibab forest due to the endangered owl.  

Nearly dead and a few newly wed is what the residents seem to be.  It is a sad junky looking town where most homes are run down with old tractors or cars on the front...ummm.  dirt...very few real lawns.  

There are a few brave dedicated noble residents who continue to try and boost the economy with neat homes and gardens...but not much is there.  It seems to me this town should be as industrious as Kanab, but somehow Arizona has designated it as the red-headed step child of the state...Now...finally it seems the rest stop will open with the new museum of Indian artifacts donated by a man who has collected them his entire life, a sweet and generous fellow named Dixon.

We drove from Chandler Arizona, across the desert some 170 miles to Flagstaff (the kick off spot to the south rim of the Grand Canyon.)  across a mountain pass to traverse the Colorado river at Navaho Bridge, built in 1929, at the same spot Lee's Ferry operated.  It is a narrow spot in the river (figuratively speaking as the Colorado goes) and walla! we were on the North side of the "Big Hole" as the Grand Canyon is often called.  In fact I almost had the same feeling as at Gettysburg when we took the driving tour and once we were at a church near the top of a meadow...we turned back on another road, and discovered we had changed from the Union Side to the Confederate side...it was eerie,  that's almost how this felt.  Cross this short bridge and you're on the North Side of the Grand Canyon...strange.

The landscape is of course spectacular and would be a great spot for our photographer good friend Glen Singley...he would have gone nuts taking pictures so much so his poor wife Susan would be weary of waiting for him to be finished.

Arriving in the afternoon we picked up the keys for our house in Fredonia, left to us by Patrick's older brother Leon, who built the house, lived in it a few days and then died, never having the chance to enjoy his work.  It is a comfortable house, where the garage is almost as big as the house...a guy thing...and I finally figured the toilet in the master bedroom is handicapped and taller than usual.  Now I'm not short by any means but sitting on that thing with my feet not touching the floor was very uncomfortable!  I finally realized the other porcelain fixture in the second bathroom was of normal height and OK to use with some degree of comfort considering the 6 hour car ride flared up some hidden bottom issues that had been brewing ever since my lady surgery 4 weeks ago.

We attended the parade the next day, where the last down the street lined with eager onlookers was the firetruck.  I guess the neighborhood kids had been planning a retaliation all year as across the street from us about 12 boys waited in ambush the entire parade.

The firemen, ready with water hoses sprayed the crowd...the boys fought back with hoses and well placed water balloons.  Many had constructed shields of cardboard or plastic and were able to get very close to accurately loom their water bombs at the firemen...from where I sat, I called the little altercation a tie...even though the firemen were armed with large fire hoses...the boys with young accurate arms pelted their ammunition with great accuracy and the men standing from their advantage point on the top of the truck were just as wet as the kids.

Other on-lookers had umbrellas to keep from getting wet, but in the over 90 degree weather many just enjoyed the chance to cool off...a good time was had by all.

The rest of the time there we worked cutting down the weeds in the front yard and around the little house.  We may finally have gotten the house into our name and legally able to sell very soon.  ANYONE WANT TO BUY A BARELY LIVED IN HOUSE IN BEAUTIFUL  DOWNTOWN FREDONIA?  It is crazy that when a brother has in his will..."my brother can have my house and stuff after I die", should have to go through such a lengthy process...and spend over $2,000. in legal feels just to get a property changed into the name of the person in the will.  But then what would lawyers do?   And since now we have a child in law school I guess we should understand...and I hope little Pat learns how to avoid all the nonsense and tells us the secret to leaving our stuff to whom we want without loopholes or necessitating our heirs to spend  tons of money.

I also picked up a few copies of the Red Rock Review...a publication of Kanab Utah (located 6 miles across the border) where one of my poems was featured...I was surprised it was on the first page, but after reading some of the other entries...it made sense.  Mine was a story about the area...and was a well constructed poem, many others were not...or did not make sense.  Now I've read a lot of poetry in my time and consider myself somewhat liberal in my interpretation of "poetry", but a few of the entries were a bit off the mark.  There were a few short stories also, and some art work, so I guess it was considered a literary journal of sorts. I'm just happy to be published and in the company of a few good writers.   If anyone is interested in my entry...look for "A good old Stick" in one of the past months on this blog.

Now to haboo, aboo, not sure which is correct yet, but after our seemingly very long ride back to our home away from home in Chandler Az.  We arrived to be hit once again by the 106 heat....in Fredonia we considered it nice to have 90, and cool water coming out of the tap, (instead of turning on the cold and scalding our fingers in the water flowing out the way you do in Chandler!) 

We were lucky we got home about an hour before the aboo hit.  I decided it was time for Patrick to have a hair cut and we were on the balcony doing the deed when I noticed all of a sudden it became dark.  I looked over my shoulder to see what was blocking the sun and could see a wall of brown quickly moving our way.   After a few minutes we were surrounded by dust and went inside to finish the haircut.  Not long after the TV had a news break to announce the haboo...and told everyone to stay inside and definitely not to drive.  The pictures on the TV showed a 2 mile high and at least a mile or two wide wall of dust traveling across the valley.  Halting planes and cars everywhere.  I saw today on the news we should expect 2 or 3 others to pass by us before the monsoon rains in the next few days.  I wish we had gotten the rain to settle the dust, but we were not so lucky.  Today I swept up a huge pile of fine gritty dirt from the patio...can anyone say asthma attack? 

Well this is my report on our little adventure...and today Patrick called from work and said the company is looking for people who are willing to go to another country...he named a few including South America and India, and so far the only one sounding inviting is Canada.  If we end up there after October we will have to speak Canadian....Ayyyy! or French depending where he is sent...right now that is not looking like a real possibility...but you never know!

No Place Like Home...Miracles Happen

Above is Michael and his bride Shannon, As I look back on his skateboarding injury, I have learned more than anyone can imagine. 

 There is No Place Like Home…Brain Fugue

When Michael came out of his coma one of the first things he said was, “I want to go home.”  This statement immediately pulled me to my all time favorite movie, the “Wizard of Oz”  with the message of seeking intelligence, heart, and courage…so when Michael constantly repeated this statement it broke my heart and made me think of flying monkeys, lions who were scared, and witches who shrink when they touch water. 

Mike was tied into bed hand and foot with an oxygen meter clipped to his toe.  Along with his plea to go home he often said, “Mom, get the scissors and cut these things off.” 

When I responded, “Honey, I don’t have scissors with me.” 

He would then say, “But you are friends with the nurses…and I know they have scissors.

He was so persuasive and crafty, like Houdini, he often was able to quietly work the restraints loose, and his toes would unhook the O2 monitor and shoot it across the room sending the alarms into a loud cacophony.  In the middle of the night when he constantly removed the monitor, in desperation for some quiet, I put the monitor on my finger and fell asleep in a chair with my head on the bed.  Before the nurse took his vitals and did an assessment in the morning, I would put it back on his big toe…he would look at me and smile and not fiddle with the monitor for an hour or two.

His recovery went through the classic levels of coma scale symptoms, and he was soon moved into a rehabilitation unit.  I stayed with him during the day and was able to manage his crazy behavior, but because of his volatility the hospital assigned a sitter to keep him in bed during the pm shift.  Often as soon as the sun went down he tried to leave the hospital saying, “If you won’t take me home, I’ll walk, it’s not too far.”  Well this tiny “sitter”, woman was about as useful as lips on a duck when it came to keeping him in bed during the night.  Her 5’1’ thin frame was no match for 6’2’ Mike.  The first night I came over around ten in the evening and realized he had sun downer syndrome.  That is a condition, when as soon as the sun goes down a patient will become unreasonable.  Anyway I walked into his room to find four nurses in the room…each had one limb and they were slowly persuading him to get back into bed.

He saw me as I came into the room and said, “Oh Mom, get me out of here…If you loved me you’d take me home.”  (Knife into the heart)…

I called Big Pat and said, “You have to spend the nights here, I don’t think the nurses can handle him.”  So that night they moved in a sleeper cot and Patrick spent every night with crazy boy while I held down the fort in the daytime.

At regular intervals during the night, Mike would sit up abruptly and start to get out of bed and stand up with his IV hanging, his brain drain bulb swinging down next to his cheek and he swayed trying to get his balance to manage the walk to the door.  Patrick would grab him and wrap his arms around him, swaying and rocking, blocking the way to the door and say, “I love you, your mom loves you, your family loves you, and we want you to get well so you have to stay until the doctor’s say you can leave.” 

Mike would beg to leave but soon his strength would give out and his legs would start to fold and Patrick would sit him down and then lay him back in bed…until the next time when he would sit up abruptly…then the scenario would be re-played.

I had stuffed this memory deep into my head until one day about a year later when I was back teaching and had students at United Cerebral Palsy Institute.  It was lunch time and my students were in the dining hall assisting the patients to eat.  All of a sudden one of the young men who was very crippled, started to yell. “I want to go home, Mommy take me home.”

Until that time I had been pretty strong and brave during Mike’s recovery, following all the physicians’ orders and explaining the physiological implications to family and friends in a stoic fashion.  Well…hearing those words found the crack in my armor and my heart broke…I was back experiencing the painful plea to "go home."  I began to cry and sob with the memory of those difficult days.  I quickly left the room and after about 20 minutes of hiding in the bushes next to the building.  I called my students together and dismissed them three hours early.  My eyes were red and watery, and no one asked why they had the afternoon off…and I never told them.

Since then the thought has occurred to me…”Where is home…is it where you grew up, went to school, spent your childhood, where your family is?  When you are grandparents with kids spread across the country, is home when you are visiting, or when they come visit where you are living…even if you’ve moved.  Is home a house, people, or spirit? I don’t think home is a house of mortar and wood and plaster.  A house can be comfortable and maybe familiar but it is not home without people.  My conclusion on this subject is that home is where people you love surround you.  So really, home could be a tent or a tree.  I learned so many things about life and myself going through this tragedy with Michael. And we were blessed with a Miracle.