Josie

Josie’s breast cancer is back. She prayed and suffered, worked through and ultimately triumphed over her first bout with the disease a few years ago. Since then she’s earned a Habitat for Humanity house for her family and finally, a couple of months ago, paid off the last of her medical bills. I cannot imagine how hard it must’ve been for her to hear that her old enemy is back; she’s got to fight the fight again; and, this time she’s going to lose both breasts.

Josie is a housekeeper at the hospital where I work, and I have never met a more hardworking, cheerful, optimistic, faith-filled person. While some of the other housekeepers skulk around reading magazines in the bathrooms and talking on their cell phones in corridors, Josie mops, dusts, sweats and hustles, doing the work of two or three. And, she does it with a smile on her face and a cheerful word for everyone she encounters.

A single mother with high standards for how her two children should live, Josie works all the time. And, on a housekeeper’s wage, the time she lost to treatments, surgery and recovery the last time, not to mention all the co-pays, almost got the best of her financially. Not one to talk about her problems or ask for help, Josie suffered in silence and did the best she could.

But, because she is such the hard worker, and such a delightful person, Josie is well-liked in the ER, and her prayers for help were answered in the form of a constant stream of donations, big and small, “to help Josie out.” Literally several thousand dollars were silently and anonymously donated by the ER staff during the months of Josie’s first battle with cancer. We helped with her medical costs, light bills and her rent. We even helped with her kids’ Christmas that year. Josie still cries and thanks the Lord when she talks about how “everyone took care of me and my kids at a time we really needed the help.”

Since Josie’s first cancer a lot has changed in the ER and many of the original folks who had a long history with Josie are gone. Donations this time have been slow coming in. Economic times are harder for everyone and the staff now has a higher percentage of young people just trying to make their own ends meet…I was beginning to worry that we weren’t going to come close to helping Josie the way we did before, and this time her treatment and recovery period is going to be longer and harder.

Then, yesterday, one of the older docs stepped in. He’s a rumpled kind of a guy who wears funny ties. He’s been in the ER long enough to be blunt with patients when the situation calls for it, and sometimes that generates complaints. He’s a quiet fellow who sort of sticks to himself around staff. So, it surprised me when he pulled me aside and asked, “So, with Josie, what are we looking at? How much does she need to make it through this thing this time?”

I told him and then he pulled a wrinkled blank check out of his white coat pocket and wrote it for a very generous amount. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, back into a patient’s room, not seeming to need any comment or thanks in reply.

It took me a few minutes to pull myself together, gulp back the tears and go find him to thank him. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable with the thanks as he seemed to be writing the check. “I’m just worried about Josie,” he said. “She works so hard; she doesn’t deserve this – especially not a second time.”

Last night, after I got home, I turned on the football game - a rare thing for me, but I got sucked into the Favre-and-the-Vikings-face-Favre’s-old-team thing. One of the first things I noticed was a deep shade of pink all over the football field. Both teams’ wristbands were pink; the bills of the coaching staff caps were pink; most of the players’ cleats and gloves were pink; the sideline towels were pink; even the refs were sporting little pink ribbons with the NFL emblem in the middle.

“What’s going on?” I wondered. “Has it been that long since I watched a football game? Since when is pink a football color?” Then it struck me, this is a breast cancer thing. About that time I noticed a big pink sign on the sidelines that said, “Catch the Cure!” So…the NFL has hopped on the breast cancer awareness bus. Now that’s some pretty awesome backing.

It occurred to me that what that doc did for Josie today was pretty much the same thing as what the NFL had done by putting all that pink on the field. In both cases, big men had stepped in and made a powerful effort to help women fight a great big foe.

I called the doc, who was still on shift in the ER, and told him about all the pink on the football field, and how that check he wrote was going to make an NFL-sized difference in Josie’s life over the next few months. He just laughed, and said he couldn’t imagine so many big men wearing pink…

“But, for a good cause,” he said, “Why not?”

Chaos

“I’m beginning to think peace is something we make up to keep us from being satisfied with all this luscious chaos.” -- Story People



The Chimney Swifts are gone. They left about a week ago, to fly back to South America, where they will spend the winter. Early in the season, we had only one family of these elegant, little, flying insect eating birds in our old brick and mortar chimney. But, according to the bird websites, after the two broods of the season are raised, the birds share their chimney with other families, in some cases creating a large, temporary colony.

That is what happened in our chimney beginning in early August. Chimney Swifts are a protected species because their numbers are dwindling so, due to the loss of their habitat, which is large hollow trees and masonry chimneys. Apparently, our big, tall, uncapped chimney was an ideal location, as the number of Chimney Swifts living in it continued to grow through August and into September.

By mid-September, every evening, right around dusk, a spectacular aerial show took place in the skies above our house, with hundreds of Chimney Swifts dodging and circling and whirling and diving as they feasted on flying insects and circled our chimney creating a swirling vortex of small, fast-flying, loudly twittering black birds. It was like an elaborate, elegant ballet with our chimney at the center of the stage. (Knowing a single family of Chimney Swifts consumes 12,000 flying insects each day made the performance that much more enjoyable.)

For months, no – actually years - Mr. Clark and I have “been gonna’” get the chimney repaired and have a new cap made for it. Our house was built in 1903 and the chimneys – like so many other things – have fallen into a bit of disrepair. But, in typical Clark house fashion, the “been gonna’s” persisted until something wonderful happened that will justify and prevent further repair work being done – at least for now.
This happens a lot at our house.

For years there has been a colony of bees living in one of our four front columns. In times past, (before the bee fungus started radically decreasing hive numbers throughout the country) there was a veritable swarm of bees flying in and out of the big hole their bee ancesters carved in that column top a long time ago.
Folks walking by always point at the bees and a surprising number ask why we haven’t had them exterminated by now. Why would we? They’ve never hurt us, and bees are a good thing. They’re responsible for a huge amount of the necessary pollination that occurs, even in commercial crops…

Every spring there’s a family or two of some kind of bird that nests in other holes, carved by their bird ancesters, high up on the other front columns of our house. Again, the question comes up – “Why don’t you plug those holes, so the birds can’t get in?” Again, my response is – “Why would I?” The birds aren’t doing any harm and it’s fun to watch them raise their young each year.

One of the carpenters we had working for us (back when there was money, time and interest in home repairs) was so amused by my bird habitat conservation policies that he built little metal roofs over each bird hole.

“Now your precious birds won’t even have to get wet when it rains,” he laughed, at me – not with me - I’m sure.
Right now there are four young squirrels living in the top of one of our front columns. The columns are Corinthian, so there is plenty of room for a squirrel nest, up there amongst all of that embellishment. I see these little guys peaking down at me from what looks to be a pretty perilous perch, as I come and go each day. I’m not sure how they got there or how they’ll escape, as I don’t hear them in the attic and there are no trees near enough for them to jump to. But, they seem to be well-fed, so whatever they’re doing is working for now…

Passersby stop and point them out, laughing at their antics, as the four little squirrel siblings peak their cute little faces over the column top. And, yes, the obvious question is, “Why don’t you do something about those squirrels? They’re going to destroy your column top, you know…”

I have added “find source of replacement Corinthian column tops” to the “been gonna’” list. In the meantime, I continue to look up at them and smile, even as I survey the bees to see how the population seems to be doing today. (Their numbers are dwindling…damn bee fungus!)

I’m comfortable with a bit of a mess around; a touch of chaos suits me just fine. In fact, a lengthy “been gonna’” list and too many piles of things needing organizing is way more comforting to me than an alphabetized spice shelf or a neatly edged lawn.

Life is short and organizing things takes time. Order (at least in my mind) is over-rated and often an illusion. Things happen - good and bad – suddenly and unexpectedly, no matter what state our chimneys, spice shelf or Corinthian column tops are in.

And, should something bad happen to me or mine, I will be glad to have seen the Chimney Swift ballet and cohabitated with the swarming bees. I will remember how much fun it was to watch the birds raise their families, and I will recall how the sight of those four silly squirrels peaking down at me always made me smile.

Delroy

Delroy Winslow died this week. He was 59. A notoriously heavy drinker and often homeless man, Delroy was a “frequent flyer” in the emergency room where I work as a social worker. His blood alcohol levels were legendary – often twice or three times what would make a normal person pass out. But that didn’t stop Delroy, the Timex of drunks. He took licken’ after licken’ and kept on ticken’.

Nobody really knew Delroy’s story because most of the time he spent with us in the ER, he was passed out or asleep, snoring loudly. Occasionally, when it was time to go, Delroy would let slip something about his life or his pas - after the alcohol had worn off and the warmth of a hospital meal had set in to his usually aching and empty belly.

Delroy was Delroy Winslow, Jr., which meant somebody had admired his daddy enough to make Delroy a namesake. He never talked about his mama, except to say she “passed a long, long time ago.” He also never talked about a wife or kids. Tall, thin and muscular, Delroy looked to have been a handsome man, back before the liquor took such a toll. I liked to imagine there was a sad story in Delroy’s past – maybe a pretty wife and several small children, tragically killed in a car accident. Maybe that’s what turned him to drinking – the loss of his beloved wife and loving family…

The thing about Delroy was that he was so likeable – even plum drunk, he was a really nice guy. He never cussed or used the Lord’s name in vain. (“I might be a drunk, but I was raised up right,” he would say.) He was always polite (“Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir” that was Delroy.) And, he would answer any question respectfully and honestly. (“Delroy, why are you here again today?” someone would ask. “I just can’t help myself. I know it’s wrong, but I just love drinkin’ too much,” he would reply.)

Delroy had an aunt and a sister somewhere in South Georgia, and every so often, when his drunken escapades had pushed his old, rapidly tiring body almost to its limit, he would hitchhike “down South” to stay with them for awhile. In a few months, he’d turn up again, passed out on the street somewhere and hauled in by the ambulance, wearing nice clothes and looking a little healthier and fatter than when he’d disappeared.

“How come you don’t stay down South where they take such good care of you?” we’d ask, when Delroy came to after turning up again.

“I love my aunt and my sister,” he would say. “They feed me real good and they keep me in nice clothes, but they make me go to church, and they won’t let me drink, and there’s only so much of that kinda’ livin’ a man can handle.”

Sometimes when he was passed out somewhere, Delroy would get beaten up, rolled and robbed by other, meaner drunks. You see, Delroy had a “job” at a liquor store, toting boxes of booze around. Mostly they paid him in liquor, but occasionally they’d give him a little cash to go get something to eat or buy something warm to wear. And, when Delroy looked well-fed or had on a new coat, that seemed to be the signal for the mean bums to move in.
Delroy was always thankful for the care he got in the emergency room. And, he was always appreciative of the bed, the meal and the bus pass to the homeless shelter, where we knew he never stayed.

I think one of the reasons we all liked him so much was that he seemed like a kind man who life, for whatever reason, had dealt a particularly bad hand. Sure, being a mostly homeless alcoholic indicates a bevy of bad decisions and poor choices, made over and over again. But, somehow, in Delroy’s case, it always seemed like there was a reason he did so poorly – something beyond what could be called his fault – something bigger and sadder and meaner than anything in him.

It was surprising to see the reaction in the ER when we got the news that Delroy was dead. The ambulance crew dispatched to the “man down” call in the “Tent City” (where all the homeless people live) called in immediately. “It’s Delroy. This time he’s really done it; this time he’s dead….”

Word spread fast in the ER and the reaction was the same, over and over again. “Damn! I never thought he’d actually pull it off and drink himself to death…I never thought I’d say it, but I’m gonna’ miss Delroy…He was a good ole’ guy.”

We actually had a moment of silence for Delroy at the Charge Nurse’s desk the day he died, and I heard the crews the next day and the day after that did, too.

Strange how someone so unlikely, who many would consider “unworthy,” can touch so many lives, in such a poignant way. For me, it was Delroy’s resilience and hopefulness. His life was simple; his needs were few; he knew he was flawed , and, he just kept going anyway – always leaving the ER with a smile on his face, and big “Thank you and God bless you!” for whoever he passed by.

Rest in peace, Delroy; and, may your next time around be a little easier and less “spirits” possessed.

Destruction!

“I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree…A tree that looks at God all day and lifts her leafy arms to pray…A tree that may in Summer wear a nest of robins in her hair…Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.” – Joyce Kilmer, “Trees,” 1914

The sound of destruction has been coming from the lot four doors down for weeks. First it was the loud ripping of metal and wood, as they battered and beat the house and garage down. Then there was the sound of the bulldozers, backhoes and dump trucks, as they tore up the concrete garage pad and hauled all that had once been a historic home and recently-built three car garage away.
They didn’t spare the little pink play house in the back or any of the shrubbery. It seems like such a shame - a historic house that had been a cozy home for so many years, and a big, potentially useful garage – gone. I wonder if they even salvaged any of the materials…

Then, last weekend, it got worse – way worse. They took down all the trees on the lot – nine 100-year old oak trees – felled, sawed up and hauled away, in three days time. What were they thinking? Why turn a beautiful, old growth, fully wooded lot into a barren silt pit, devoid of all vegetation? Couldn’t they have found a lot without trees somewhere else?

Why in the world would you buy a lot on a tree-lined street, full of historic homes, then tear down the historic house and cut down all the trees? It just doesn’t make sense.

Some of my neighbors tried to call attention to the destruction, and while the city fathers listened to their pleas, the answer to their questions was that Winder has no ordinances governing the destruction of historic property or old trees. Since historic properties and old trees are two of things that make old town Winder most appealing, that seems like a shame.

Years ago, when I was a house painter, I painted that old house at 146 N. Center Street. It took me months, and I ended up not making much money on the job, but I really enjoyed the work. It was profoundly rewarding to take something that had reached a point of near decay and bring it back to life – protect it, caulk it, fix it, and then cover it with a nice coat of paint.

In the process of painting that house, I got to know the woman who grew up there, and lived in it still. Her name is Lynn Roberts and her father, the late Col. Harry O. Smith, bought that house and the 3+ acres it stood on for $1,000 in 1937. At that time the house had only four rooms, (as Lynn told me over a delicious tomato sandwich and some sweet tea last week.) She remembered how, as a “not quite five-year-old” child the upper two rooms “swayed in the wind on a cold winter night.”

Coming from Atlanta, Lynn said, “we thought we had moved to the wilderness,” but the fully wooded lot and ample space gave the family room to keep horses and gave young Lynn space to roam free.

Eight years later, in anticipation of his second child, Col. Harry O. added a bathroom and a screened porch to the house. He also built Lynn a little play house, which was initially white, but later turned “a rusty red when Daddy painted it with some leftover barn paint.” Lynn has fond memories of playing in that little house (now gone) and I remember imagining what fun it must have been to be the little girl who once played there, as I toiled on the back of the main house.

In 1950 or so, Col. Harry O. added two more rooms to the house, finishing the floor plan to what it was when the home was destroyed. Lynn returned to the house to live with her father and her two children in 1974, after her mother died. She lived there until she and her husband, Ted retired and moved to a more modern and much easier to keep home, on a smaller lot, several years ago.

Lynn told tales of the “horse shows” she and the neighborhood kids used to have, and how they were always fascinated by a “headstone” (actually a discarded Veteran’s marker) they found in the back of the lot. There were stories of ghosts and “many good times,” Lynn said, in reminiscing about her years in that house.

And, now it’s gone.

Lynn said she wasn’t’ surprised the house was taken down, as it had stood empty with a leaking roof for the past couple of years, and “it always had water problems.” She said the lot was “swampy” and the house had been built “flat on the ground.”

“In fact,” she said, “that lot ate up two big rocks and a St. Joseph statue. They just sunk into the swamp and disappeared.”

Like Mr. Clark and I, and so many of the neighbors, Lynn said she was devastated to hear about the destruction of the trees.

Winder’s historic district needs to be expanded to include all of the historic homes in the “Olde Town” area. The city needs to research what other cities have done to protect their historic homes and trees. And, the council needs to adopt stringent ordinances to protect what is quaint, pretty and pure about this town’s history. The magic, beauty, stories and trees that once made 146 N. Center Street special are gone. Whatever replaces it cannot possibly have as much to offer to our city’s future, its history or our collective memories.

The city is asking for citizen input about how the future of downtown Winder will be shaped. A Livable Cities Initiative (LIS) meeting will be held on Wednesday, October 7, 2009 at 6 p.m. at the Winder Community Center; all concerned citizens are invited to attend.