Slow Down and Live

On muggy  Missouri summer nights, when it was too hot to be inside, my sisters and  I played our favorite game.   Kathe may have invented it. As the oldest she liked to organize us.  It might have been my idea since I remember being influenced by my Dad's tendency to do things slowly and  intentionally. If  Kristy made it up there would have been singing involved.  Kelli watched  from her playpen.   

We would hide behind the big rock near the end of driveway and wait for a car to come by, while lightening bugs danced above the field grass and  illuminated the dust hanging in the air.  To pass the time we told  scary stories:  An old woman lived alone and found a stranger in her  attic...    Late one night there was a knock at the door and a man covered with blood...      

When we  heard the  crunch of tires approaching, we  crouched behind the rock, grabbed hands...quietly counted...1..2..3..then jumped up and shouted, 

"Slow Down and Live!"

Our game ended when an elderly neighbor claimed he nearly had a heart attack and did not  want to die in front of the Dannar girls.   Our apology to him included a basket of cherry tomatoes  from our garden and a promise not to do it again.

That gravel road is now a fast-paced street, with a constant flow of traffic. Car lights and street lights pierce the night sky, making lightening bugs invisible. The open fields were divided, subdivided and parceled into tiny yards.  Air-conditioning results in closed windows in cars and houses.  

Slow Down and Live resurfaced after forty years when my sister Kathe was diagnosed with terminal cancer.   As adults we all returned home frequently to spend time together again.   During the year of her illness we reminisced about our rural upbringing and wondered why we felt driven to deliver that message, when our life was so slow-paced and simple. 

Life is noisy and  fast-paced;often chaotic and too stimulating.  A quiet, peaceful spot may not be right outside your door.  But, it is out there somewhere, waiting for you to claim it as yours. 

My daughter, Sara, enjoying a quiet moment

My current favorite spot to reflect, meditate and drink in nature is a strip of desert near our home in Tucson.  I often walk there early in the morning, repeating my mantra....

Slow down and live.   

Rose Knows Holidays

Happy Groundhog Day!  

And now for something completely different!   Today my grand-daughters, Fern (7) and Rose (5)  celebrate Groundhog Christmas, which was born three years ago when Rose attempted to explain Groundhog Day to her older sister.  

That hilarious conversation, relayed to me by my wonderful daughter, Sara,  inspired this poem.  

Learn something today from a child.  Your life will be enriched. 

Rose Knows Holidays

                                                                                                                                                        

Fern climbed out of bed,  “Happy New Year Sister Rose!”

“Oh my goodness”, Rosie cried,   “I must find my holiday clothes!”

“Happy New Year to you…Happy New Year to you", Rose sang and played. 

She lit the candles on the cake and served everyone lemonade. 

 “I know you love Valentine’s Day”, Fern said to Rosie in the bath,

“Oh, my goodness!”, Rosie cried, ”We’ll  need to make a path!”

She grabbed the flag and led the parade passing by

Overhead grand   fireworks completely filled the sky.

“Soon we’ll hide the Easter eggs”,  Fern announced one day to Rose.

“Oh my goodness!”, Rosie cried,  “I know  what I will be!  Just what do you suppose?”

She smiled, and thought for about a minute and a half,

She disappeared, then reappeared, in a hat and silly mask.

“I can’t wait for fireworks!”, Fern said to Rose on the swing.

“Oh, my goodness!”, Rosie cried, “I do hope I get a wing!

She smacked her lips and rubbed her tummy,

“Turkey with all the fixin’s, now that is what I call  yummy! “

“Rose,  our September birthdays are next in line, wont’ that be fun?”

“Oh my goodness!”, Rosie cried, “ Yes! I think I’m almost done! “

Red, orange, green, yellow and blue,

“I colored all of these eggs Fern; the best one is for you!”

“What should I be for Halloween?”  Fern asked Rose one day as they danced.

“Oh my goodness!” , Rosie cried, “I know, I know,  just let me take a chance!”

Soon the room was filled, from the ceiling to the floor,

“I love you” said the big red hearts that hung down from the door.

“What are you thankful for this year?” Fern asked in November.

“Oh, my goodness!”, Rosie cried, “Now I remember!”

She grabbed the bells and whistles, and sang a little tune,

“For old acquaintance be forgot”…. she danced around the room.

“Go to sleep dear sister Rose, but listen for the reindeer,

“Oh, my goodness!”, Rosie cried, “I can’t believe it’s been a year!”

In her big straw hat and sunglasses, she sang out all of her wishes,   

“If Santa sees his shadow, we’ll have six more days of Christmas.”

                                                                                                                         

Me and my wild and wonderful girls.....

First Time

Happy New Year, and welcome to my first posting in 2012....

This experience, long before I became a nurse, has stayed with me and influenced my fascination with an amazing part of life--the end, as we know it.  

First Time

. 

     “G’mornin’ Doodler.  Ready for another day of saving lives?”  Dad offered me toast, then the weather report, fresh from the gray transistor radio on the pine kitchen table.  He poured milk in his coffee, “Mostly sunny, high seventy-two, twenty-percent chance of an afternoon shower.  Not bad for October.” I felt guilty that the one day he could sleep in, he was up to drive me to work.   His morning weather reports, delivered in his quiet, thoughtful manner, were his way to send his four daughters off each day, properly prepared for the outside world. 

      I hated getting up before dawn, especially on weekends.   I hoped the eight hour day shift--on four hours sleep--would be an easy one.   Dad dropped me off under the red canopy at the county hospital as the sun scaled the treetops.  He pointed to the third floor nursery windows and reminded me I was born there, seventeen years ago.  

     “Remember Doodler, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”  

     “Thank God for the day shift!  It’s been a hell of a night.”   The nurse’s aides, uniforms stained with blood and vomit, were exhausted and eager to leave.  I worked with that group all summer, and then switched to the day shift when school started.  I knew a bad night on the geriatric unit could lead to a challenging day. I crossed my fingers.    

     The kitchen staff pushed food carts down the wide halls and delivered breakfast—oatmeal and poached eggs.   The housekeeping crew mopped the tiled floors and banged trash cans together as they emptied them.  Nurses and doctors made rounds.

     I was sure everybody wished they were somewhere else.  I wanted to turn the clock back twelve hours and be at  the Sky-Hi drive in, fooling around with Don in the backseat of his ‘66 Chevelle, while Bonnie and Clyde robbed banks, then died together. 

     “You’re going to do special duty today.”  The charge nurse said. “Only one patient.  Just stay with her and try to keep her quiet.  She was loud and restless all night.  No one near her got enough sleep.”

     “Should I bathe and feed her?” I asked.

     “No, she probably won’t live through the shift.  Just be there with her.”  I had never sat with a dying person before and suddenly I wished I had the typical assignment of six patients to bathe, feed and exercise.   My stomach grumbled as I entered her room.  I longed to be at the breakfast table with Dad.   I reviewed everything the charge nurse told me: she is actively dying, her family has been called, and she shouldn’t have anything to eat or drink.  Just stay with her and keep her as quiet as possible.

     “Hello.  I’m your aide today.  Are you comfortable?” No response.   What a stupid question!  She’s dying.  Of course she is not comfortable.  I realized I had no idea what to say or do. 

     I did not want to look at her damp, pale face, with her gray hair matted across her forehead.  The side rails rattled as her small, frail body thrashed. The sound of her head against the metal made me wince and feel nauseous.  I snatched flannel blankets from the chair and padded the rails.  She grabbed my hands and clutched them to her chest.   I recoiled at her rotten breath and eyes staring at something only she could see, as she brought my face close to hers. 

     “J. E. C. T. N.E. A.” In a raspy whisper she was telling me something, by spelling it out.   Her dry mouth struggled to produce each sound.   “P.L.E.T.”, she continued to grip my hands hard.  When I managed to pull away, I turned on the call light to summon help.
  

    The charge nurse arrived and jokingly asked me if I had seen a ghost.  “She’s trying to tell me something.  I got scared.” The nurse chuckled and told me about her early experiences with death.   She checked her pulse and breathing, and whispered, “It won’t be long.  Call me when she’s gone.”

     I pulled a chair close to the bed and began to listen again, this time with a paper towel in hand to write down the letters as they came. 

     She grabbed my hand again, this time with less intensity. 

     “R. C. O. M. P.L. E. T. I. O. N.P.R.O.”

      I pulled my hand away and ran to the door.  I yelled for the nurse and stood there shaking, holding the paper towel until she appeared.  We walked together across the room. 

She was curled on her side, with her hand resting on the flannel blanket, where my hand had been. No thrashing. No pulse. No respirations. 

     I stood by the window; outside the sun continued to rise, offering warmth and light. Not bad for October.

     I looked at the paper towel in my hand and read, PROJECT NEAR COMPLETION.

Tackling Barriers, Trying New Things

:Does time really move faster as you age?  It seems like my September birthday was a month ago. I apologize to those who have asked for updates on my quest to tackle barriers and try new things as I prepare for my 60th birthday.  Perhaps the time has passed quickly because I have been so busy....

September:  If you are a woman and have not attended the annual Women's Week at Deer Valley YMCA camp in Pennsylvania, I encourage you to JUST DO IT!!  deervalleyymca.org.   If you look closely at this photo you will see parallel lines above the trees--the camp's zip lines.  With my daughter (who directs the women's programs) ahead of me/encouraging me, and a group of wonderful fellow-campers on the ground cheering,   I climbed the pole and zipped across the lake. I would do it again in a heartbeat. What a rush...!   During that week I led the daily "Morning Watch" group, which I have done several times.  This year  we explored the question "Who Am I Now?", from a spiritual perspective. And, for the first time, I added singing to the group.  Another new thing!  We sang a song each morning that I learned  last winter in  the Tucson Women's Chorus.  Each woman interpreted the words individually, which created lively discussions.  The song lyrics:  Woman am I...Spirit am I...I am the infinite within my soul..I have no beginning  and I have no end....all this I am.   I would love to hear your thoughts about the lyrics.

Klara & Peter in DC

Veterans near the WW II memorial

October: Peter and I drove to Washington DC to attend the One Nation Working Together rally--an uplifting experience in the midst of heartbreaking divisions.  The presence of many military veterans, especially older/compromised ones, inspired me to renew my commitment to activism. 


Back in Michigan, we enjoyed several Bois Blanc Island visitors, then closed up the lodge for the winter and headed south.  In Columbia, Missouri--my hometown--my mother and I spent a beautiful fall afternoon on the  Columbia College campus. We both attended classes when my father worked there.  My mom graduated from high school at the end of World War II.  Both of her older brothers are war veterans--one was in a prison camp and missing. for a year.  She met and married my dad, also a war veteran, shortly after high school, and became a mother to four daughters (I am the second one).

Just a couple of college girls...

Mom in our  former psychology class room

If I ever wonder where I get my drive to try new things, it doesn't take long to come up with the answer.  My mother started college thirty years after high school, around the time my dad took up motorcycle riding.  Mom agreed to enroll in a psychology class with me, and continued to take classes on her own--when she wasn't traveling the country with dad on the back of his motorcycle.

Speaking of traveling, when I left Mom's I decided to take a bus to Denver, where I was scheduled to meet Peter. Another one of those things on my "to do" list...not sure why.  I had wanted to take a train, but there wasn't a reasonable route.  The fourteen hour greyhound ride was....well....interesting. I boarded the bus with a group of men released from prison that morning.  They were easy to spot in the crowd: the only ones without cell phones, inadequate clothes for the crisp autumn air, personal belongings in paper bags. Unfortunately, I didn't get to talk to any of them (they got off a couple of hours into my trip).  Mom and I recognized the profile because we have a family member  in prison. She met him there, at the same bus station, a couple of years ago when he was released. As I ponder this spot I am in my life--turning 60 and exploring what my role is now--I can imagine becoming more involved in prison issues.  My experiences as a family member, a visitor and an advocate always leave me frustrated and angry.  I am blessed to count several former inmates as my current friends and teachers. 

November:  Peter and I attended the annual American Public Health Assoc (APHA) meeting in Denver.  I had not been to a meeting  for several years and it was good to be back in the company of 12,000 folks devoted to public health issues.  As I listened to the current concerns and needs for public policy change, I was again inspired to consider re-entry into nursing.  

Peter ready to head to Tucson

 We left Denver, spent a few days in Durango with former Michigan friends, then drove to Tucson---home for the winter.

I have wanted to experience a hot air balloon ride since I was a little girl. I am a serious Wizard of Oz fan and  grew up in the mid-west. When a Tucson friend suggested we do one  over the desert, I was thrilled.   Another opportunity to check off something on my life list.  The 90 minute ride provided  time to imagine life from a new perspective...familiar but different, distant but present.  I felt safe, so I relaxed and enjoyed the ride.

December:  The best Christmas gift EVER was the arrival of my daughter and family.  Ten days immersed in the world and lives of Fern (6) and Rose (4), and their wonderful parents, along with my sweet husband, Peter.

Christmas dinner with family and friends

Food for Santa and reindeer

What adventures, challenges, surprises will the New Year bring?

Happy Birthday to Kathe

 My older sister, Kathe, died of colon cancer in 1999.  Yesterday she would have celebrated her birthday. I wrote the following piece shortly after her death to thank my dear childhood friend, Janie, who was Kathe's favorite nurse.   

Beautiful Dreamer

For my thirteenth birthday my sister Kathe, 15, gave me nail polish, and a lecture that boys would like me more if I didn’t play in the dirt with them and was more lady-like.  Kathe practiced what she was preached: matching shoes and purse, fashionable clothes, perfect black curly hair, careful make-up and freshly manicured nails.  She danced gracefully to Bobby Vinton tunes, and knew enough French to sound intriguing while teasing the boys.

The polish sat unopened on my dresser for years.   My short, bare nails suffered from building tree houses with boys. I wore jeans most of the time.  Nothing matched. I danced wildly as I listened to The Rolling Stones. My unruly blond hair was usually tucked behind my ears. Instead of flirty foreign phrases, I swore at the injustices I saw around me.   I never quite made it to the level of sophistication that Kathe achieved and recommended for me. It took both of us until we reached adulthood to realize our differences, accept our individual personalities, and celebrate the women we had become.

Years later when she was dying of cancer, we laughed a lot about her efforts to civilize me.  At 49 she was facing death with a level of grace and sophistication that was familiar to her, while  I was struggling with all of my raw and untamed forces  that wanted to stop the world, turn back time and erase the awfulness of the present.

Kathe was hospitalized several times during the year of her illness.  Janie Kemper, RN became one of the most important people in her life. Her many years as an oncology nurse resulted in her ability to give her patients the things they need the most to face a life-threatening or life-changing illness or prepare for death.

Janie noticed early that beauty and femininity were Kathe’s life blood. She would announce her arrival to Kathe’s room by saying something like “Girl that polish has got to go!  It does not match your scarf!”, or “You have got to check out this wig! It is so you that it scared me when I saw it!”  Then Janie would open the box of manicure supplies she brought in with her, or pull a wig out of her pocket. She and Kathe would be transported to a beauty parlor where Kathe felt womanly, alive, artistic and healthy. Kathe would be able to leave cancer and her baldness behind for a while. They would gab, giggle, and be girly— familiar and necessary parts of who Kathe had always been.  Janie gave Kathe opportunities to preserve her dignity and her sense of self.  Following Janie’s lead, several other nursing staff comforted Kathe by massaging her with her favorite lotions during the night, her most challenging and scary time.

Several times Kathe was gravely ill, hardly responding to us.   Janie would arrive and Kathe would rally, wanting to talk about hair, nails, perfume and bubble baths.  Kathe knew she was dying, talked about it freely and wanted to know that she would not lose that important part of herself in the process.

 Janie taught us, Kathe’s whole family, to tap into her needs and provide her an environment that gave her control to be as beautiful and dignified as possible. She encouraged us to bring in anything that would help Kathe continue her role as beauty consultant. For years Kathe had been involved in the Miss Missouri pageant, acting as sponsor and assistant to the contestants.  Kathe’s hospital room became a beauty queen’s haven, ripe with colorful scarves, mirrors, make-up, exotic clothes, dance music, jewelry, flowers and boxes of chocolate.

 One evening Kathe’s daughter dressed my husband in wild scarves and paraded him down the hospital corridor.  That led to other patients being curious about what was going on in her room.  Soon patients, families, nursing staff and housekeeping staff stopped by and discussed their fashion and beauty needs with Kathe.  She advised them, sharing her wisdom and experience with them, always stressing their best features and how to highlight them.

            Janie gave Kathe, and all of us, a priceless gift by understanding what Kathe needed, in addition to all of the cancer treatments available. She needed to maintain her self-identity as a woman with a mission to beautify the world. Her job wasn’t finished yet and cancer didn’t need to end that part of her persona.  Janie’s insight into that need, her ability to use humor and honestly communicate with all of us  resulted in Kathe dying with perfectly manicured nails, a wig that looked like her own gorgeous curls, and smelling like Channel Number 5, her favorite fragrance.  Most important though, she had the peacefulness that she had done what she was here to do—make the world a more beautiful place.  One of my favorite photographs was taken by Janie a few months before Kathe’s death.  She captured Kathe’s vitality and glamour while surrounded by her three sisters and our mother.

            Janie didn’t have to give what she did.  She could have focused on Kathe’s illness, rather than on her life.   It is challenging to be with someone who is dying and it is easy for clinicians to avoid tough topics.  I will be forever grateful to Janie for her approach. And occasionally I paint my nails and smile.

Klara, Kelli, Mom/Luci, Kristy, Kathe

           

Happy Birthday to Me...removing barriers, moving toward 60

A couple of days ago I drove north  from Ann Arbor, Mich to our home on Bois Blanc Island.  The air conditioner in my VW doesn't work so  I arrived four hours later at the ferry in Cheboygan  dripping wet,  eager to jump in Lake Huron.  Ahhh...heaven.

The high the next day was a refreshing mid-70s, perfect hiking weather.  As I left the house I spotted a dead tree across the driveway.  It was a hot, still night, but the landscape here is so rocky  it doesn't take much prodding for a tree to fall.  Roots here typically sprawl out among the rocks rather than work against them to go deep.

I had a few options to deal with the tree.  I could wait for my husband and friends to arrive tomorrow and have the men take care of it.  There are neighbors nearby who would have helped.  Or, I could find a saw in the barn and do it myself.

With the tree across the driveway I am trapped here.  I had planned to drive eight miles to the general store/pizza place/ice cream stop (our version of a mall--one stop for everything)  and celebrate my 59th birthday with my beloved island community.  

As I  reflect on my life--the good, the bad and the truly mysterious-- the bad times pale in comparison to my immense blessings, which are far more than I deserve.  I do not take those things for granted.

One year until that landmark number sixty.  As I consider the past, contemplate the future and celebrate the present moment, I understand that I sometimes allow self-imposed barriers to prevent me from trying new things, taking chances, taking risks.

Singing?  Love it, but only last winter was I brave enough to join a women's chorus, after decades of wanting that.  The spring concert was a dream come true for me.

Writing for others?  A passion, but I stop short of trying to get things published.

Optimal health?  Sure, in theory I want that.  In practice I have some serious changes to make.

Dance lessons?  On my "to do" list for years.

And, the list goes on....

So TODAY I begin my quest to tackle barriers--real, imagined, self-imposed.

With an old rusty saw in hand, I conquered the first one.  It took an hour.  My muscles ache.  And I am smiling like a kid with a new bike.

Now...who's going to buy me a beer?

Food Legacy: Recipes for Life

What will I remember about this  4th of July week-end? Without a doubt it will be Adele's gazpacho--the best I have ever eaten, and Adele. 

The next day she gave me a gift that will also help me remember the meal:  fifteen people working together to prepare a holiday meal in a beach house on Lake Huron--ideal weather, a few lightweight fireworks, tons of laughter, a bit of teasing, young folks flirting, older ones remembering, some political opinions, sun-burned backs, sangria.....

The gift? Her gazpacho recipe, handwritten that morning, in her elegant 90 year old penmanship.

I started collecting recipes about 40 years ago.  The clippings from magazines and newspapers, the recipe cards from friends/family and yeast packets with scrumptious sounding breads, all used to be neatly organized in a long  basket.  A few years ago  I  dropped the basket, which dumped everything onto our farmhouse kitchen floor.  The  sections "Favorites from Grandma's Kitchen", "Fun Things to Make with Sara", "Early Garden Harvest" etc. were instantly homogenized.   I scooped everything into a grocery bag and planned to reorganize them soon.  But I got distracted by the convenience of looking  up recipes online. 

Last year I discovered the bag in back of the pantry when we moved from the farm.  Again, I  vowed to restore order to my collection. Someday.

When I received Adele's recipe I pulled out my bag and began to sort.   Within minutes I felt like old friends--many of whom are deceased--were sitting around my kitchen table. 

 I spotted my sister's handwriting on a card labeled "Kathe's Chocolate Mints".  She loved fanfare and drama, and created Martha Stewart-like celebrations for even the most mundane occasions.  She introduced that recipe to our family when she was a young mother, determined to create the perfect home, complete with homemade bonbons.  Kathe died in 1999, but her special sweet treats are made every Christmas by my daughter, Sara, who started making them years before Kathe died.    Even before her illness, the chocolates were part of her legacy.  

One thing we all have in common, beside the fact we will all die, is that we all eat. Nurturing our bodies with nutrients sustains life. Part of our self-identity comes from our relationship to food. 

Do you cook/bake?  Grow your own food?  Buy local?  Prepare certain foods for certain occasions? 

Do you identify as a healthy eater?  A compulsive eater?  Someone who occasionally splurges on a favorite food?

We will leave behind perceptions of who we were, always with an element of mystery. Our family and friends will regret that they didn't ask  for more  details and stories that only we could have told.    A food legacy -recipes, stories, favorites--is only one way to share important aspects that make you uniquely you. 

I am not suggesting we give up the Internet, but these treasures that surround me tonight--handwritten cards or printed recipes with personal notations--will always mean more to me than a  Google search result.

I want my grand-children to know that their ancestors produced food by working  in gardens and fields.  And to eat some of the same foods that were always a part of special occasions.

A man who I did not know well, but admired for his kindness and generosity, died last week.  Tonight I found the following recipe that he wrote for me a couple of years ago.   

Bill's Apple Cake

Spread 1 can of apple pie filling in 13x9" cake pan.

Mix together in a separate bowl: 2 c. flour, 1 c. sugar, 1 tsp salt and 1 1/2 tsp soda:  then sprinkle over pie filling.

Beat together: 2 eggs, 2/3 c. oil, 1 tsp vanilla, 1/2 c. nuts.  Pour over dry ingredients and even out batter.
Bake at 350* for 40-50".    

Caramel icing:  melt 2/3c. butter or margarine and 1 c. firmly packed light brown sugar.  Stir in 1/4 c. milk.  Bring to boil and simmer for 3 minutes.  Remove from heat and let cool before spreading on cake.   Enjoy the fruits of your labor!!

Farewell my friend. Thank you for the recipe.  You will not be forgotten.