Late Night Blessings

It’s 5 a.m. and I’m fresh off a 3 p. – 3 a. shift in the ER. I’m a social worker there, which is, at times boring - as in, “Bring me a Coke or a blanket or help me make a phone call…” It is also, at times, quite harrowing – as in, “Call this man’s family and tell them he has died in an ‘MVC’ (motor vehicle crash) - and, get them here right away to identify his body and claim his valuables…”

Really, really bizarre work - good work - but really, really bizarre work. .Tonight’s shift started out slow, which meant I had time to complete my “holiday bereavement cards.” These are personal notes written to anyone I’ve tried to help through an awful experience during the past year.

This year’s list included families of a “GSW” (gun shot wound - in this case fatal) to the head, a premature and quickly fatal stroke, a suicide., a foreseen but still very sad heart attack, and a 10-week old baby’s death…Serious stuff here - these people are hurting intensely this holiday season, and here I am, fretting about Mr. Clark finding work …

Around 1:30 in the morning, as it often does, ER hell broke loose…

A woman transferred from another hospital, bleeding badly, is in need of surgery tonight. Her distraught, but clearly strong and connected family signs the consent forms and tries to deal with the news from the surgeon that, “she probably won’t make it through this…”

The wife and daughter of a man with untreated high blood pressure hear that he has suffered “a massive stroke - from which he won’t recover.” Such strong women they were, praying and crying and talking to him, touching his chest and telling him how much they love him and how much they needed him to get better, while at the same time saying good bye…

There was an intubated man, also transferred from another hospital, his injuries the result of an MVC. In this case, his girlfriend apparently dropped him off at the ER and left. As head injury patients often are, he was combative, and somehow ended up heavily sedated and on a breathing machine - no family, friends or girlfriend in sight, no numbers in the chart or anywhere on him to call…

Add to all that, the poor panic attack girl who was on her second ER visit – seventh panic attack – of the day and you really begin to count your blessings.

After all, it is the holiday season, and many of us have brightly lit Christmas trees or other holiday decorations shining in our homes. We have loved ones, and good health, and holiday plans that involve good food, much laughter and excellent fellowship. It’s hard to imagine, as we gather near our Christmas trees or Menorahs or whatever, that some - in fact, so many – folks are struggling so hard, just trying to make it through the aftermath of a terrible tragedy.

On the way out of the hospital I stopped to look at the huge Christmas tree they put up in the main lobby each year. It’s three stories high and replete with lights and great big shiny ornaments. Even though the hospital was quiet and dark - almost eerily so at 4 a.m. - I swear, I heard a few strains of Silent Night, swirling up around that beautiful tree, lifting softly and sweetly into the night…I thought about all the sad situations and difficult times happening to people in rooms all over this big place…and, I said a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

My life certainly has some very real, very big-seeming problems looming relentlessly over our heads, even as we try to solve them. The brightness of my New Year - given the state of the economy and Mr. Clark’s continued unemployment - is in no way guaranteed…But, I do have a healthy family who will gather around my Christmas tree again this year, and once again, we are all, in various degrees, okay.

Life, and God, are good, and I see that, and I hear that, in the faces and words of so many of the people who pass through the ER, having such very terrible days. They talk of love, and faith, and happy memories…There are no words of hate at an ER bedside. There are only tears, and hope, and sometimes - to those serving at that bedside – a reminder of how thankful we all must be.

You are right, Mr. Grinch!

"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store….Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!" - the Grinch

Mr. Clark was in the Athens unemployment office the other day. The place was full. One of the clerks said he’s worked in that office for 14 years and he’s “never seen it this bad.” Usually, he said, the Athens office sees around 1,200 people a month. “Last month,” he said, “we saw over 6,000…I don’t know what we’re going to do about finding all these people jobs.”

According to the headlines, 1 in 10 Americans is “in mortage trouble,” whatever that means.

Last week our very own Barrow Journal reported that foreclosures in Barrow County have jumped 80-percent in the last five months. There were 157 foreclosures in our county in October, and a total of nearly 1,400 so far this year.
The headlines also say the 533,000 layoffs that occurred nationwide in November were the “most in 34 years.” Not to worry, retail sales are down, too. A post Thanksgiving headline cries “Nov. retail sales worst in 30 years.”

All this said, after only brief deliberation, we agreed not to exchange Christmas gifts this year – not in the immediate Clark house or between the extended Clark family houses. The extended Sinn family is on the bus, as well. We did agree that we would all probably break the rule a bit, by sending small collective boxes of things we made ourselves, for cheap. For example, I might make some note cards with photos I’ve taken on them. Mr. Clark could throw in some of his jalapeno hot sauce. My daughter might add some silly self-imprinted things like crazy koozies or festive cocktail napkins. My daughter-in-law’s recent association with Arbonne products could certainly round out the low cost, but sincerely heartfelt holiday boxes we send to the out-of-state relatives.

Within the immediate Clark family, we’ve agreed to break the rules by exchanging coupons for various things we’ve “been gonna’” do for each other for months. Without giving away the surprises, I can say that we all have some nice ideas for things we can do for each other that involve time, rather than money. It may be shaping up to be a pretty good Christmas, after all…

When we first thought of no gifts this year, it seemed like a pretty rough prospect. I mean, Christmas – with nothing to open?

Surprisingly, it seemed fine to us all. These tough economic times are impacting even the still gainfully employed pretty hard, and, it turns out, most of us are just not that excited by the prospect of another holiday season spent roaming the aisles of Target and Macy’s hoping to find something that communicates love (or at least warmest regards…) to each and every person on our shopping list.
There wasn’t even any discussion. “That sounds good to me…Yep, count us in…We have no problem with that…” were just a few of the reactions voiced in family phone calls and e-mails. And, surprisingly, again, the prospect of a relatively non-materialist Christmas has been very freeing emotionally. I am actually feeling much more festive this year than I have in years, and a lot of it has to do with simply knowing that this holiday season is not going to be about gifts – at all.

Mr. Clark put up the Christmas tree today, and we hung our wreaths and outdoor decorations. The nutcracker collection is back up on the mantle. The angel collection looks great, as always, on the piano. A few cinnamon and pine scented candles set the tone in the air. And, Christmas music is pretty much all we’ll be listening to, from here on through the New Year. Who says you need to buy a bunch of stuff to enjoy the holidays?

One of the things I like most about life is the surprises along the way. One of the things I believe is that difficult times and problems and challenges come to us for a reason - that reason being there is a lesson to be learned. I can’t say that Mr. Clark’s six months (and still counting…) of unemployment have been anything but harrowing. I can say there have already been some valuable lessons learned. I think this Christmas of no gifts is another lesson in the making…

After all, Christmas is not about stuff. It’s about love, and miracles, and drawing closer together on a cold, clear night. Isn’t that what happened in that stable, so long ago…and, isn’t that what we seek as we deck our halls, and string our lights, and wander the aisles of our favorite department store?

The Grinch was right. Christmas doesn’t have to come from a store. And, yes, it does mean a good bit more.

Mr. Cupcakes picks a Christmas tree

Turn Right to see the Badger

In an effort to cut expenses at the Clark house, Mr. Clark has begun driving like a UPS driver. No, he doesn’t wear a brown uniform, nor has he (at least not yet) painted our vehicles brown - but he is making only right turns, whenever possible.

You see, he read an article about how UPS plots delivery routes to use the maximum possible number of right turns. The idea behind this is left turns involve more idling at stop lights and corners – and, more idling equals more fuel use and greater carbon dioxide emissions.

UPS began the right turn thing a couple of years ago, and it must really work, as currently 90% of the turns UPS drivers make to deliver the nearly 15-million packages they deliver each day are right turns. In 2007, UPS trucks drove 2.6-billion miles, and all those right turns saved 3-million gallons of fuel, as well as reducing carbon dioxide emissions by 32,000 metric tons.

Back to Mr. Clark. While I appreciate his efforts to cut our fuel costs (and reduce the size of our carbon footprint), driving through town with him is a maddening experience. We all know how terrible Winder traffic is – well, add the challenge of making only right turns, and you can imagine how long it seems to take to get anywhere in Winder with Mr. Clark at the wheel.

It reminds me of taking rides with my grandpa when I was little. My grandparents lived in a town much like Winder, only smaller, and with less traffic. My grandpa was a big driver – loved driving, always had nice cars, lived for a good road trip. So, sometimes - I suppose it was when the urge to drive hit him, but there was no trip planned - he would take me for a ride, all around his little town.

We’d go to the post office to get his mail, then visit a few of his merchant friends downtown. Then we’d cruise around to see “the new construction” - which in this town meant a new roof, a freshly repaired driveway, a new swing set in a back yard, or a repainted restaurant sign. Sometimes we’d go out to the airport to “see if there’s any new planes” - there never were. Other times we’d drive out in the country to “see the wheat.” (My family had a wheat farm outside town, and let me tell you, wheat grows pretty slow if you’re checking on it frequently.)

The ride would wind down with an ice cream cone at the Dairy Queen. The last stop was always to “go see the badger.” (The high school mascot was a badger, and they kept a poor, sad, sample specimen in a cage out by the airport.) Sometimes we’d take the badger a snack. Other times we’d just check on him.
I remember these rides as being pleasant in their own way, but also pretty boring and slow. It seemed like my grandpa could cruise around for hours, not really seeing anything – and he didn’t even know about the right turn thing.

One day, sitting next to Mr. Clark as he wound his way through Winder, making only right turns - no hope of reaching our destination in sight – it hit me. This was just like going to see the badger with my grandpa - only I’m much older now, have a lot less patience, and there’s no ice cream cone involved. No wonder I’ve started sending Mr. Clark out on errands alone most of the time!

“Too bad there’s no badger in Winder,” I told him. “If there was, at least we could go see him, as we wind our way through town, one right turn at a time.”
“How do you know there’s no badger in Winder?” Mr. Clark responded. “Maybe we’ll stumble upon him on one of our “trips” (to and from the grocery, the post office, the bank, etc.)

I don’t know if Winder has a badger. Maybe, instead, there’s a wog – somewhere, in a little cage, hoping for some visitors or a snack. If he’s out there, we’ll find him. Then “seeing the wog” he can become part of Mr. Clark’s right turn routes through Winder.

In the meantime, think of all the gas we’re saving…

Lovin' the South

Nineteen years ago today, we packed our two, small, crying children and all of our possessions a moving van and set out across the country to our “new life, in the South.”

I grew up in Colorado. My husband grew up in California. We spent our early years together near my family, in Boulder. Our kids were born there. I always assumed we’d die there. Then, in the late ‘80s, the Western economy took a nasty turn and, in hopes of brighter prospects, Mr. Clark took a job in Atlanta.

We had no idea what we were in for. I had seen “Gone With the Wind” a bunch of times, and been on one Anti-Bellum Trail bus tour with my family as a child. I knew most beauty pageant queens came from the South. I knew Southern people talked slower and were supposed to be more hospitable than the rest of us.

I also knew I would be homesick, and that my kids would be mad about being uprooted. What we were gaining wasn’t as obvious as what we were giving up. We had our work cut out for us…and, that didn’t even include the house.

Instead of settling in an Alpharetta Swim Tennis – the way “Cookie,” the realtor, wanted, we bought a “historic restoration property” in Winder. There had been a fire. It was condemned. The yard was overgrown. It was rumored to be haunted. But, we felt sure all this 1903-built Greek Revival beauty needed was some TLC and she’d be restored to her Tara-like glory once again…

It took us a year to get the house up to livable snuff. It took us another year or so to actually make her feel like home. The kids settled into their “awful new school.” They made friends and got involved in activities. Mr. Clark’s job went well. The people we met were generous and hospitable. They did speak more slowly, but there was a charm to the lilting pace and drawl of it all. The South had begun to weave us into her web…

Five years into “the Southern experiment,” as we once called it, my kids had definitely taken root. My daughter had an obvious Southern accent, and my son (initially my hold-out child) had started proclaiming he “loved this place” and, “was never going to leave.” My secret (and not so secret) dreams of returning West seemed to be at serious risk…

Ten years into “the Southern experiment,” as it was no longer called, we were entrenched. The South had us in her web and she was not letting go. Both kids did well in high school and were headed off to East Coast colleges. Mr. Clark’s Atlanta-based work was going gang-busters. My daughter was deeply in love with her high school boyfriend. My son was proclaiming that he was going to “move to Athens” after “getting through college” and “traveling some.”

Sixteen years into what is now known as “our life in the South,” my daughter married her high school boyfriend. They settled in Atlanta. A couple of years later, her brother married his UGA sweetheart. They (true to my son’s high school proclamation) live in Athens. And, here I sit - still the mistress of a much quieter “Tara” - squarely half-way between my two grown children’s lives. Any doubt about what happened to those hopes of moving back West?

Like it or not, I am firmly woven into the web of what has turned out to be a wonderful, wild ride of a near-twenty year Southern adventure.

I will admit, I do still dream of moving back West - for try as I have, I have never really fit in here the way my kids do. If I had a $1 for every “Bless her heart,” or “Well, never mind, she’s not from around here,” that’s been spoken on my behalf, I’d be a good bit wealthier than I am…

But, if “home is where the heart is,” I guess my Western heart has found its’ home - right here in the South. Maybe by the time I have grand children, I will have at least learned how to make a decent pitcher of sweet tea!