On March 25, 1960 my younger brother was entering this world in a small hospital in the small town of Philipsburg, Montana. The doctor who delivered him was not competent enough to recognize how much distress the baby was in. He suffered from a condition called erythroblastosis fetalis, Rh factor, in which a mother with Rh negative blood has a slight blood transfer with her baby's Rh positive blood. The mother's body reacts by producing antibodies against the perceived threat, even when the threat is her baby. The sensitivity builds gradually and seldom affects first or second pregnancies. Roddy was the third child. He was left with speech and hearing problems, spasticity, mental retardation. The damage was irreversible.
On October 8, 1962 as my sister was entering this world my mother was leaving it. She was drawn into a world of danger, intrigue and secret conspiracies, the world of the paranoid schizophrenic. Schizophrenia is not split personality, as in the T-shirt "I'm schizophrenic and so am I". Schizophrenia is split thinking: schizo=split phren=mind. There is a breakdown in the way the mind processes information often causing hallucinations; the brain receives visual and auditory signals without outside stimuli. It is as if your television turned itself on and began broadcasting its own channels. Medications can mute the input but they cannot shut it off. The disease was incurable.
One might question the goodness of a God who would burden my father with both a handicapped son and a mentally ill wife, but there is a beautiful economy in God's purposes. Because my mother was mentally ill, dad would spend most of his life alone in his marriage. And because my brother was handicapped, he would spend most of his life with his dad. Through all the lonely years they have had each other. Isaiah 55:8,9 says:
" For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the Lord.
As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
God has a plan for everyone born into this world. Often those plans don't make sense to us. That is because the plans are not of this world.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
No One to Play With
For many years I have called my sister's children, Alex and Amanda, my transition team to bridge the gap between raising my own children and having grandchildren. I married young and had all three of our children by the time I was 30. My sister, who is six years younger than me, didn't marry until she was over 30. (For a fee I will tell how much over 30.) My kids were in their teens when my sister's were being born. Unfortunately my niece and nephew have also succumbed to growing up, Alex is 13, Amanda 11, and the ship coming in with my grandchildren has not yet appeared on the horizon.
I have been grateful not to be made a grandmother through the creative efforts of my unmarried sons like many of my acquaintances have. I am also grateful that my daughter lacked that kind of creativity before marriage and while putting her husband through school. Now, after nearly eight years of marriage, they have decided to make a sequel "Grad School (non) Musical " which alters the ETA of my future grandkids. There are many reasons for wanting to have grandchildren: spiritual--I want to help pass the baton of faith to the next generation, revenge--someday I hope you have children just like you, selfish--you get to spoil them and give them back to their parents. My reason--I want to have someone to play with. That is why I look with such regret at the empty horizon and a transition team who will soon discover hanging out with their aunt is uncool; I am afraid I will have no one to play with.
I don't intend to be one of those grandmas who has things to play with, I want to be a thing to play with. I like coloring and pretending a blanket on the floor is a magic carpet. I like making forts in the living room and in piles of leaves, making up silly songs and wishing on the first star of the evening. I like imagining. For example, on Sunday we were at Silverwood amusement park where my favorite ride is the Paratrooper. On the first ride Amanda was with her mother and I rode by myself. I noticed how much it was like swinging and was tempted to pump my legs as if it would go higher, but I was a 54 year old woman riding alone on the Paratrooper. Toward the end of the evening while Reed and Alex were waiting in line for another ride, Amanda and I ran off to the Paratrooper. I pretended to use Jedi mind tricks on the group of teens in front of us, "These are not the rides you're looking for", and they actually did leave to go home. Perhaps I am a Jedi. Amanda and I rode together pumping our legs, grossly describing what would happen if our seat broke free. We named the stars--not the constellations--Herbie, Melvin things like that. Simply put, we played.
I was one of those girls often described as mature for my age. This is code for a child forced to grow up too quickly by hard circumstances. Maybe for that reason I didn't get playing out of my system, all I know is that I am tired of being mature for my age. I'm not going to start singing "Puff, the Magic Dragon" at this point. Maybe I'm just a girl who can't say grow, but the solution to the problem is simple--trust God. That is the solution to everything. Trust His plan. Trust His timing. Trust His goodness. Meanwhile I'll play with the transition team as long as I can and just keep watching the horizon.
I have been grateful not to be made a grandmother through the creative efforts of my unmarried sons like many of my acquaintances have. I am also grateful that my daughter lacked that kind of creativity before marriage and while putting her husband through school. Now, after nearly eight years of marriage, they have decided to make a sequel "Grad School (non) Musical " which alters the ETA of my future grandkids. There are many reasons for wanting to have grandchildren: spiritual--I want to help pass the baton of faith to the next generation, revenge--someday I hope you have children just like you, selfish--you get to spoil them and give them back to their parents. My reason--I want to have someone to play with. That is why I look with such regret at the empty horizon and a transition team who will soon discover hanging out with their aunt is uncool; I am afraid I will have no one to play with.
I don't intend to be one of those grandmas who has things to play with, I want to be a thing to play with. I like coloring and pretending a blanket on the floor is a magic carpet. I like making forts in the living room and in piles of leaves, making up silly songs and wishing on the first star of the evening. I like imagining. For example, on Sunday we were at Silverwood amusement park where my favorite ride is the Paratrooper. On the first ride Amanda was with her mother and I rode by myself. I noticed how much it was like swinging and was tempted to pump my legs as if it would go higher, but I was a 54 year old woman riding alone on the Paratrooper. Toward the end of the evening while Reed and Alex were waiting in line for another ride, Amanda and I ran off to the Paratrooper. I pretended to use Jedi mind tricks on the group of teens in front of us, "These are not the rides you're looking for", and they actually did leave to go home. Perhaps I am a Jedi. Amanda and I rode together pumping our legs, grossly describing what would happen if our seat broke free. We named the stars--not the constellations--Herbie, Melvin things like that. Simply put, we played.
I was one of those girls often described as mature for my age. This is code for a child forced to grow up too quickly by hard circumstances. Maybe for that reason I didn't get playing out of my system, all I know is that I am tired of being mature for my age. I'm not going to start singing "Puff, the Magic Dragon" at this point. Maybe I'm just a girl who can't say grow, but the solution to the problem is simple--trust God. That is the solution to everything. Trust His plan. Trust His timing. Trust His goodness. Meanwhile I'll play with the transition team as long as I can and just keep watching the horizon.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Gone to the Dogs
Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone. Oh where oh where can he be? I remember that song from my childhood. I don't remember where the dog turned up in the tune, but I know where the dogs are now: at the craft show, the concert, etc. I have a dog and thoroughly enjoy his company at home or going to the island for walks where he can explore, sniff and pee to his heart's content, but Garth is no connoisseur of the finer things. I wouldn't consider taking him to a concert, even before he went deaf, because he has no discernible appreciation for music. Neither is Garth interested in art or craft shows. He is a dog. If I took him to those venues he would sniff, pee (or worse) and growl at other dogs because he is a dog and that's what dogs do.
But I have noticed that in increasing numbers other people are bringing their dogs to these crowded, public events. An outdoor concert is no longer an opportunity for humans to enjoy music, summer and nature at the same time, they have become an adult show-and-tell. Apparently a pet themed show-and-tell. One man staged a mini performance by standing up and putting his dog through a series of commands. Most of the showing off is more subtle.
Last weekend I attended a large craft show where a doberman (who knew they could be aggressive?) started after one of the many little mutts in attendance. The owner gave it an earnest tongue lashing and threatened to leave it in the car. Why didn't she do that in the first place? What part of the craft show did she think the dog would enjoy? Last night I was at a park for an evening concert when I smelled a noxious odor and then noticed a dog walking past. No, it had not gone or worse in the near vicinity, that was just the way it smelled. It was definitely the most aromatic of the many music loving dogs at the park. In past years at the concerts it was requested that dogs be left home because running children + dogs = biting incidents and the parks department didn't want to be sued. Also dog + dogs = barking, growling, fighting and dogs + grass= poop. Unless these animals have remarkably strange home lives I am sure the owners have noticed this pattern of behavior.
It would take rather extensive/expensive training to teach a dog to pee (or worse) only on command, get along with all other dogs and never growl at running children not to mention teaching them music/art/craft appreciation. It might be easier to train people to enjoy all dogs, stepping in poop and being growled at or bit but I have come up with an even simpler solution--take the dog to places where he can sniff, pee and other things he enjoys or LEAVE THE DOG HOME. This country is not going to the dogs, the dogs are being chauffeured there by their owners. If you want your dog to appreciate culture, feed him yogurt or better yet, let sleeping dogs lie.
But I have noticed that in increasing numbers other people are bringing their dogs to these crowded, public events. An outdoor concert is no longer an opportunity for humans to enjoy music, summer and nature at the same time, they have become an adult show-and-tell. Apparently a pet themed show-and-tell. One man staged a mini performance by standing up and putting his dog through a series of commands. Most of the showing off is more subtle.
Last weekend I attended a large craft show where a doberman (who knew they could be aggressive?) started after one of the many little mutts in attendance. The owner gave it an earnest tongue lashing and threatened to leave it in the car. Why didn't she do that in the first place? What part of the craft show did she think the dog would enjoy? Last night I was at a park for an evening concert when I smelled a noxious odor and then noticed a dog walking past. No, it had not gone or worse in the near vicinity, that was just the way it smelled. It was definitely the most aromatic of the many music loving dogs at the park. In past years at the concerts it was requested that dogs be left home because running children + dogs = biting incidents and the parks department didn't want to be sued. Also dog + dogs = barking, growling, fighting and dogs + grass= poop. Unless these animals have remarkably strange home lives I am sure the owners have noticed this pattern of behavior.
It would take rather extensive/expensive training to teach a dog to pee (or worse) only on command, get along with all other dogs and never growl at running children not to mention teaching them music/art/craft appreciation. It might be easier to train people to enjoy all dogs, stepping in poop and being growled at or bit but I have come up with an even simpler solution--take the dog to places where he can sniff, pee and other things he enjoys or LEAVE THE DOG HOME. This country is not going to the dogs, the dogs are being chauffeured there by their owners. If you want your dog to appreciate culture, feed him yogurt or better yet, let sleeping dogs lie.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
18 Ocean View
I was 18 when I first saw the ocean. I grew up in Missoula and a river runs through it, several actually, but being from a non-swimming family my experiences were limited to throwing rocks in the water and wading. Although there were several lakes not too far away I have very few memories of being at a lake. So when I found out the first social activity of the year at my college in Oregon was a beach party I was thrilled. I wondered how I would react. I am by nature a reserved person and I didn't know anyone there well enough to let down my guard with anyway, but as we got near enough to the coast for me to see glimpses through the bus windows I started crawling over my classmates for a closer look. I was entranced. When we got out of the bus and I could experience the ocean with my other four senses it was even more magnificent.
I had never seen such massive motion, it was as if the familiar mountains surrounding my Montana home had somehow come to life. I had never heard the roar of the ocean before, and yet it sounded familiar. The vastness of the sea stretching from the Oregon horizon to merge with her sister seas and cover the planet made me feel as small as the grains of sand on the beach. I knew within it's depths were fish of all sizes and descriptions, strange creatures, some still undiscovered, and nearby--whales. All this combined with the power of the wind until I began to distinguish in the roaring waves the call of a mother, the call to come home. The ocean calls us home because it is the sound of the womb, the first sounds any of us hear. A womb with a view. Burial at sea now seemed more fitting than lonely.
For the Christian there are many strange homecomings. Through Christ we come to God only to discover He is our Father and that somewhere inside we knew all along that He should be. We find a church home and discover that it is full of brothers and sisters from newborn to elderly. We travel to distant places and feel an instant kinship with strangers with whom we have nothing in common except the Spirit. And finally, we go one by one to the foreign beauty of heaven only to discover it has always been our real home.
I waded in the cold water that September in Oregon though few others did. They had seen the sea before. We have made many trips since then to the rocky Oregon coast. I have seen the northern Atlantic and enjoyed the warmth of the Gulf coast and occasionally swayed to the rocking chair motion of boats. In Hawaii I even saw whales. The first time I saw the ocean I wondered how I would react; it is the same to this day--with wonder.
I had never seen such massive motion, it was as if the familiar mountains surrounding my Montana home had somehow come to life. I had never heard the roar of the ocean before, and yet it sounded familiar. The vastness of the sea stretching from the Oregon horizon to merge with her sister seas and cover the planet made me feel as small as the grains of sand on the beach. I knew within it's depths were fish of all sizes and descriptions, strange creatures, some still undiscovered, and nearby--whales. All this combined with the power of the wind until I began to distinguish in the roaring waves the call of a mother, the call to come home. The ocean calls us home because it is the sound of the womb, the first sounds any of us hear. A womb with a view. Burial at sea now seemed more fitting than lonely.
For the Christian there are many strange homecomings. Through Christ we come to God only to discover He is our Father and that somewhere inside we knew all along that He should be. We find a church home and discover that it is full of brothers and sisters from newborn to elderly. We travel to distant places and feel an instant kinship with strangers with whom we have nothing in common except the Spirit. And finally, we go one by one to the foreign beauty of heaven only to discover it has always been our real home.
I waded in the cold water that September in Oregon though few others did. They had seen the sea before. We have made many trips since then to the rocky Oregon coast. I have seen the northern Atlantic and enjoyed the warmth of the Gulf coast and occasionally swayed to the rocking chair motion of boats. In Hawaii I even saw whales. The first time I saw the ocean I wondered how I would react; it is the same to this day--with wonder.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Carping About Carpet
I enjoy running (more like shuffling) around the house barefoot although my old feet have not only betrayed me, but demanded support, arch support. I also don't mind being asked to take off my shoes at other people's houses, I'm comfortable that way, but I don't care if guests or residents wear their shoes in mine. I'm all about comfort (ask anyone). I want my guests to do whatever is most comfortable for them--shoes or no shoes. My main reason for that is that I am running a home, not a carpet preserve. I know a carpet gets more dirty and worn when people walk on it in shoes. I want it to get dirty and worn. In ten years I will be tired of the carpet and want to replace it, but I am biologically wired not to replace anything until the old one is broken. Unless someone's boots are tracking in mud or manure, tracking in dirt is just contributing to the cause of someday getting new carpet. You're welcome.
Wood floors are very popular now but that doesn't solve the floor problem. Many people are so fussy about their wood floors you would think they have to be cleaned with platinum. Some of them are so protected with rugs you can't even see the wood much less get it dirty, like those (reportedly) beautiful wood tables that owners perpetually cover with pads or tablecloths. If no one will ever see the wood you might as well save your money and buy press board. But, to get off the table and on the floor, I prefer carpet. Our home didn't come with buried hardwood floors that just need refinishing; we would have to start from square (foot) one.
My daughter prefers to put wood and tile in the houses they remodel because they have two dogs and carpet, although/because the dogs love it, gets nasty in no time. But as we have seen in our rooms with tile, vinyl etc. the dog hair just rolls itself into fanciful clumps and hides under the furniture. It's still there and even more alarming in bunny size. I prefer carpet because, unless you have a heated floor, it is warmer. This is Montana. Warm trumps pretty. Yes, the carpet collects dog hair, but that just makes it warmer. When we bought carpet for our first home, a trailer (we were too poor to call it a mobile home) in Helena , we were smart enough to buy a remnant that matched the dog we had at the time. You can reverse this process if you are between dogs and match the dog to your carpet but you may have to avoid the more bizarre shades of carpet. You should probably do that anyway, no matter what the decorating programs or polite guests tell you, bizarre is ugly.
So feel free to walk in my house in your shoes--or even mine. The carpet is there for the comfort and convenience of the people in the home, not the other way around.
Wood floors are very popular now but that doesn't solve the floor problem. Many people are so fussy about their wood floors you would think they have to be cleaned with platinum. Some of them are so protected with rugs you can't even see the wood much less get it dirty, like those (reportedly) beautiful wood tables that owners perpetually cover with pads or tablecloths. If no one will ever see the wood you might as well save your money and buy press board. But, to get off the table and on the floor, I prefer carpet. Our home didn't come with buried hardwood floors that just need refinishing; we would have to start from square (foot) one.
My daughter prefers to put wood and tile in the houses they remodel because they have two dogs and carpet, although/because the dogs love it, gets nasty in no time. But as we have seen in our rooms with tile, vinyl etc. the dog hair just rolls itself into fanciful clumps and hides under the furniture. It's still there and even more alarming in bunny size. I prefer carpet because, unless you have a heated floor, it is warmer. This is Montana. Warm trumps pretty. Yes, the carpet collects dog hair, but that just makes it warmer. When we bought carpet for our first home, a trailer (we were too poor to call it a mobile home) in Helena , we were smart enough to buy a remnant that matched the dog we had at the time. You can reverse this process if you are between dogs and match the dog to your carpet but you may have to avoid the more bizarre shades of carpet. You should probably do that anyway, no matter what the decorating programs or polite guests tell you, bizarre is ugly.
So feel free to walk in my house in your shoes--or even mine. The carpet is there for the comfort and convenience of the people in the home, not the other way around.
Life--condensed version
I think everyone at some point in their life should have a dog. This is not just because of how good it feels to come home to someone who greets us ecstatically and adores everything we say and do, or even because talking to the dog doesn't seem as strange as talking to ourselves . People should have a dog because dogs show us life--the condensed version. Remember those Reader's Digest abridged books? They could fit three classic books in the amount of pages the author allotted for one. Dogs, in their brief span on earth, have a lot to teach us about life.
Thirteen years ago when our dog, Garth, was a puppy he followed us around like a . . .well, you know. When he was in his toddler phase and we took him for a walk he stayed close by our heels because that was where he felt safe, much like any preschooler. A couple months later when Garth was in his "teens" he ran ahead, regardless of what we told him. He was satisfied with occasional glances back in our direction just to make sure we were around somewhere. Sound familiar? This was followed by many happy years of companionship with our adult dog. That is the stage of life Reed and I are in now, enjoying our grown children.
But Garth is now in his late life stage. He has a hard time getting his hips off the floor. Sometimes he will leave a tossed chunk of food laying on the carpet rather than get up, a sacrifice that would have been unthinkable before. Garth is now stone deaf and has nearly lethal breath. The white on his muzzle is spreading to the top of his head. He has grown a bumper crop of fatty tumors. He still loves going for walks but lags further and further behind. When I wait for him to catch up, he seems embarrassed. He pants for quite a while after we get home and drinks a lot of water. I have begun to shorten our morning walks.
What have I learned from a non-English speaking teacher one fourth my age? Besides seeing 70 plus years of human life condensed into little over a decade, I have learned cleanliness is next to loneliness, not godliness. The companionship of a pet more than makes up for the hair. It is important to stop and smell the roses (and everything else) as we pass through life. The same old routine can be exciting if you have enough imagination (poor pattern recognition and/or minimal intelligence). Now that Garth is deaf and we both suffer from arthritic knees, I learn that the goodness of life is not about what we can do, it's about who we have. When Garth dies we will learn anew to grieve and move on to love again. A dog's love is not undying, but it is unconditional. If unconditional love is all we learn from our pet's condensed life, it is more than enough.
Thirteen years ago when our dog, Garth, was a puppy he followed us around like a . . .well, you know. When he was in his toddler phase and we took him for a walk he stayed close by our heels because that was where he felt safe, much like any preschooler. A couple months later when Garth was in his "teens" he ran ahead, regardless of what we told him. He was satisfied with occasional glances back in our direction just to make sure we were around somewhere. Sound familiar? This was followed by many happy years of companionship with our adult dog. That is the stage of life Reed and I are in now, enjoying our grown children.
But Garth is now in his late life stage. He has a hard time getting his hips off the floor. Sometimes he will leave a tossed chunk of food laying on the carpet rather than get up, a sacrifice that would have been unthinkable before. Garth is now stone deaf and has nearly lethal breath. The white on his muzzle is spreading to the top of his head. He has grown a bumper crop of fatty tumors. He still loves going for walks but lags further and further behind. When I wait for him to catch up, he seems embarrassed. He pants for quite a while after we get home and drinks a lot of water. I have begun to shorten our morning walks.
What have I learned from a non-English speaking teacher one fourth my age? Besides seeing 70 plus years of human life condensed into little over a decade, I have learned cleanliness is next to loneliness, not godliness. The companionship of a pet more than makes up for the hair. It is important to stop and smell the roses (and everything else) as we pass through life. The same old routine can be exciting if you have enough imagination (poor pattern recognition and/or minimal intelligence). Now that Garth is deaf and we both suffer from arthritic knees, I learn that the goodness of life is not about what we can do, it's about who we have. When Garth dies we will learn anew to grieve and move on to love again. A dog's love is not undying, but it is unconditional. If unconditional love is all we learn from our pet's condensed life, it is more than enough.
Me Time
It seems fast food commercials are trying to make us selfish: "Have it your way.", "Be good to yourself.", and now "Me time". I don't think this is a sentiment we need to encourage. If your me is anything like my me, 70 percent of the time is "me time" and that is only because for the other 30 percent we are asleep. That doesn't mean that I'm giving myself a treat (in this case, McDonald's iced coffee) on a minute by minute basis, but even when I am working or doing something for other people, I am still thinking about me. This is not an anomaly, it is the normal human condition. Ego centrism is present in newborns who may never in their lifetime learn the term. It is a good thing for babies to know and communicate what they want or they wouldn't survive infancy. The problem is we never really outgrow it. Having commercials reminding us to be good to ourselves is about as necessary as having doctors remind us to breathe and swallow.
I'm not a total narcissist. I work part time in home health as a caregiver--the real kind, not the marijuana kind. I enjoy my job because I think old people are the bomb, but that doesn't mean there aren't some for whom I wish I had a bomb, including one I shop for voluntarily. I enjoy sharing the hospitality of my home, especially the part where I get to feed people. Food is my love language. If you eat my food, you are accepting my love. I actually enjoy a pleasure more if I get to share it, especially with someone who might not have that opportunity otherwise. My conscious intention is to use my resources, especially time, for Christ but my default drive is set to "me time". So is yours.
God has given us many good things to make our time on earth enjoyable and it would be foolish and ungrateful refuse his gifts. So go ahead and give yourself that treat. But let's be honest, it's always Me Time.
I'm not a total narcissist. I work part time in home health as a caregiver--the real kind, not the marijuana kind. I enjoy my job because I think old people are the bomb, but that doesn't mean there aren't some for whom I wish I had a bomb, including one I shop for voluntarily. I enjoy sharing the hospitality of my home, especially the part where I get to feed people. Food is my love language. If you eat my food, you are accepting my love. I actually enjoy a pleasure more if I get to share it, especially with someone who might not have that opportunity otherwise. My conscious intention is to use my resources, especially time, for Christ but my default drive is set to "me time". So is yours.
God has given us many good things to make our time on earth enjoyable and it would be foolish and ungrateful refuse his gifts. So go ahead and give yourself that treat. But let's be honest, it's always Me Time.
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